


Demesne

by Labyrinthine_Elysium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ASMR, Angel Castiel, Angel Wings, Angel!Castiel, Anxiety Attacks, Autonomous sensory meridian response, Caretaker Castiel, Caretaking, Creature Castiel, Creature Fic, Fluff, Grooming, I swear it's really sweet and cute though, Kidnapped Dean, Kidnapped Dean Winchester, Kidnapping, M/M, Mates, Non-Consensual Hugging, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Panic Attacks, Protective Castiel, Sleepy Cuddles, Wing Grooming, Wings, preening
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2018-08-19 01:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8184652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Labyrinthine_Elysium/pseuds/Labyrinthine_Elysium
Summary: It was just supposed to be a research trip. The locals said to be careful of the angels. If you see one, run. But there Dean stood, transfixed. Gazing at the angel, paralyzed in fear, as it seemed… The angel was diving straight towards him.No diversions. No wavering of focus. All on him. It was coming for him. Shamelessly inspired by The Seraph by Hywar.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Demesne: possession of property of one's own right

It was scorching. Dry air blowing through Dean’s short hair. Dirt blew through the wind and became grit in anyone who dared open their mouths to breathe. Or talk.

Sam and Dean had come to this bitter land on a research expedition. Dean wasn’t really sure what for, he hadn’t been listening. He just heard ‘It’ll be warm’ and figured it might be like a beach vacation.

It wasn’t.

And they weren’t even there yet. The city walls were still several hundred yards away. But there was a large market lining the road, several tents deep on each side. Which should have blocked out some of the dirt blowing straight into Dean’s eyes. 

It didn’t.

A turkey vulture, or perhaps a hawk, was circling around in the sky above. Gracefully gliding around, wings resting on wind currently. Happy to follow where the wind took it.

Then it swooped down. 

There was a quiet stillness. The calm before the storm. Then the storm came, and crashed and conquered.

Screaming. Running. Blind panic shook the air. Dust rose as people tried to scurry away. Surely at least one person would be trampled to death, unable to be seen under the cloud of dirt kicked up by those terrified by what they knew was coming.

An angel.

Those beautiful creatures. Majestically flying free. And reigning havoc, taking whatever they want. Killing whomever they want. Sometimes they would kill humans where they stood. Other times they would take them away. Far away to wherever they lived.

No one really knew where they lived. Or how they lived. Or what they ate… Other than humans, that is. No one really knew anything about them-

“Dean! Move!”

_Right. Move._

But there Dean stood, transfixed. Gazing at the angel, paralyzed in fear, as it seemed… The angel was coming straight towards him.

No diversions. No wavering of focus. All on him. It was coming for him. 

_Shit._

He didn’t turn towards where Sam had paused running to yell at him. No. That would of have taken up time. He ran straight. Under the path the angel.

The angel _shrieked_ in displeasure. Wings snapping out from its closed diving position. The shadows of the massive wingspan.

It was the best evasive move to take, throwing the angels momentum off course would give him time. But the walls, the protective, assumedly safer walls, were in the other direction.

Taking no time to look behind him, he ran. Bolted down the main road. There were no obstacles, which was good for distance, but as soon and the angel changed direction-

A shadow overthrew him.

Plan B. He darted into the tents. Hoping that the billowing sides of the open faced tents would cover his movements. 

Right. Left. Left. Right. 

Sporadic changes were his best bet. If only he could find a place to- 

There! A large tent closed on all sides. If he could just hide, maybe the angel would consider him too troublesome as prey and choose another victim.

He ducked into the tent. There was a table with a cloth on it, dragging all the way down to the floor. Under there. That could be enough. Please let it be enough.

He dove under and willed his breath to calm. He had to be able to hear. Over his breath. Over his heart beating.

There was a quiet still in the air. It was heavy. Thick. Like dense fog. It was hard to breathe. 

Nothing.

Glorious nothing-

_Crunch._

Dean’s heart sank. Had it seen him? He hadn’t seen it, but-  


_Crunch._

That literally meant nothing. The symptomatic nervous system in flight, or fight, mode, dragged focus from the details. Every was moving by too fast. Was.

_Crunch._

It was getting closer. 

There was technically hope that it wasn’t the angel. That he wasn’t about to die. And for that matter, why him? Why Dean? Now. At this time.

Dean wasn’t going to lie to himself, he always thought he would die in the line of duty. But this wasn’t even a case. Well, not a case about angels anyway.

_Crunch. Crunch._

How well could an angel hear? There might have been theories, but no one _knew_. Could an angel hear his heart beat? Hear him breathe? By even being alive was Dean broadcasting his position to the beast?

A sound of heavy cloth dragging against loose red dirt echoed like a scream in Dean’s mind.

It found him. Now Dean had to figure another angle. Some way to get out. Or fight.

__The steps came slowly._ _

_Crunch. Crunch._

__Dean had less than nothing on him for angels. Nothing hurt them. The silver dagger in his boot was useless. Probably. Useless! Everything was useless._ _

_Crunch._

__That was right next to his ear. If only his heart were racing so fast. If only-_ _

__The table above him was thrown to the side, revealing Dean crouched underneath._ _

__Act._ _

__Dean ran to the side. Here to hoping some quick moves would give him the advantage of surprise._ _

__Bam!_ _

__He was on the ground. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe._ _

__The angel had tackled him._ _

__Dean tried to use his weight to roll on top of the angel. Get the advantage._ _

__No use._ _

__He kicked. Punched. Tried to buck the angel off of him. Screamed._ _

__It was like fighting a wall. There was no give. No hesitation. No hope._ _

__The angel was straddling him. His weight centered over Dean’s hips, leaving the man helpless. But Dean was not a man to give up, he kept fighting._ _

__Through the fury of his own punches, he noticed the angel was male. Probably._ _

__It put its, his, hand on Dean’s throat. Pushing his thumb along the underside of Dean’s jaw. Fingers inching behind Dean’s ear._ _

__Reflexively, Dean’s chin dropped, protecting his vulnerable throat. His eyes squeezed tightly shut._ _

_This is it. I’m going to die. I’m going to die._

The creature, however, seemed to have another idea. It dug its, his, hand under Dean’s neck and _lifted_.

__Dean flailed as he was lifted up, the angel used the advantage to slither its other arm around Dean’s waist and stood._ _

__Dean was pressed flush with the angel, legs scrambling to get out from under the angel without purchase. The clothes it wore were thick, but a single layer and scratchy._ _

__The beast took a step forward, threading a thigh in between Dean’s legs. Dean tried to knee him in the groin. He slipped before it even made contact._ _

__“Mother- Ah!” Dean gasped._ _

__The angel had not only hoisted him up with a knee between his legs, so he was sitting on it, but had just grazed his ticklish underarms when the angel was readjusting his own arm from Dean’s neck, to under Dean’s arm and there goes the hand back around his neck._ _

__His own hands, feeling the off balance in the shift, had clutched at the first thing that kept him from falling backward, id est the angel._ _

__Now a few inches taller, relatively, than the angel, he saw the massive wings behind it. Flared out, not aggressively, but as if simply for balance._ _

__Realizing that his chest was squished against the angels face, Dean recoiled back suddenly causing the angel to rock forward slightly. Then tossed him up a bit to remove the leg Dean had been sitting on so Dean was straddling the angel’s hips._ _

__In reality, he was only a few feet off the ground, but the instinct to clamber onto anything with when he felt his stomach dropping was hard to fight. Instincts are what keep you alive. Or what made him clutch like a frightened cat to the angel’s shoulders so hard his knuckles turned white._ _

__He turned his head down to the matching mussed hair and expression on the angel’s face._ _

“ _Adhuc, pulchra_.” The quiet, gravelly voice came from… From the angel.

_Angels can talk?_ Dean marveled. _Well, this is one to write home about. Y’know, if I ever get to see home again._

__The angel began to walk towards the entrance of the tent, a good ten feet away when it used it’s wing to open the canvas door._ _

__Dean unwrapped his legs from around the angel and tried to dig his heels into the ground, but the ground was nowhere to be found. His legs kicked uselessly._ _

__As they left the tent, Dean squinted his eyes in the sudden change of light._ _

Dean felt the earth shake. _An earthquake?_ The trembles became longer and stronger, as Dean felt his gut being pulled down and the ground getting further away-

__“No. Nononono! Let go of me!” Dean shouted as he kicked._ _

__Unheeded, the angel continued its ascent towards the sky. Soon, everything was much too small and Dean was much too high._ _

_Fuck. Don’t you dare drop me._ Except, what if this was the angel’s plan. The fun was in the chase, wasn’t it? And the chase was over. And Dean was going to die. 

__Dean felt the air become colder, he felt the wind push him against the angel. Said angel was holding him from under his arms, secure, but Dean wasn’t about to let the angel drop him when he least expected it. No, Dean clung onto the angel. Tight._ _

__The air was bitterly cold up so high. Dean felt like a science experiment for the wind chill factor._ _

__He surreptitiously nuzzled his head into the angel’s shirt, trying to breathe the heat from the angel. It helped._ _

__The beating of the angel’s wings felt like rough waves. If the rushing wind carried the smell of salt, Dean might've thought he was at sea. But he wasn’t. He was at the mercy of a merciless creature who knows how high above the ground. Maybe if he fell asleep his inevitable demise would come as a surprise to him._ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a detailed description of a panic attack.
> 
> I just spent the last five hours writing. This specifically. And part of the previous chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

Dean didn’t fall asleep. It was foolish really to think that he could’ve. They must’ve been flying for at least a few hours. The angel’s breath was heavy, but consistent. Not panting, or huffing, but just steady deep breaths.

The consistency had been soothing to Dean. He was numb with fear. Almost like background noise that he’d tuned out. He knew that he was breathing hard. Maybe it was because the air was thinner. Maybe it’s because of the endless loop of _I’m going to die_ that had been playing in his head for the last few hours.

The breaths were like someone sleeping. Like Sammy when he was sleeping really hard. 

His hands were freezing, so cold in fact that he was no longer sure if his hands were still clutching to the angel, or merely resting in their frozen, unfeeling state. Either way, they were mostly useless.

Dean had tried opening his eyes a few time, but the wind burned them. He even tried looking down a few times, but after he freaked out the first time he did so, the angel was more than reluctant to let him do it again. Gently pushing his head back against the angel’s chest if he tried to turn his head too far. If Dean were the angel he would do the same thing do, he almost made them both fall due to the flailing freak-out after seeing just how high he was.

Dean didn’t dislike heights. He just did like heights that had solid ground for him to stand on. That weren’t suspended in air. And he had a choice of being there. You know, _things_.

His arms were sore, but he wasn’t going to let go anytime soon. He needed a plan. A plan to get back on the ground and back where his life was in his own hands.

Honestly, where was this angel _going_? Why was it so far away from where ever it was supposed to be? Unless it wanted a human. But why?

Why? Why? Why?

That’s all Dean could think about. How was he supposed to make a plan if he didn’t know his enemy? Then, Dean surmised, perhaps his plan should be to learn the enemy. Learn the enemy and learn how to be dead. Any way he put it, it was a horrible idea.

Honestly, he just needed to not piss the thing off. Which would be an interesting task considering he didn’t know what would or wouldn’t piss it off. Joy.

 

* * *

 

His mate. _His._ He was so cute, the little thing. He’d put up a good fight, but a human was no match for an angel. 

He smelled lovely. Though Castiel had not had time to scent his mate properly. Chasing and flying were not ideal times for things such as this. 

His mate was trembling against him as he flew them to his nest. His mate was cold. Humans were fragile weren’t they. Try as he might, he knew he couldn’t protect the beautiful human from everything. But there were so many preparations to make. Things he couldn’t have possibly known. 

He had been out and about looking for a special something, nothing in particular really. He just had a tickle. The tickle turned into an itch. The itch turned into a burn. The burn turned into fire. The fire turned into a wildfire of nothing less than the most wonderful sensation when his eyes locked onto the other that was _his_. 

He felt whole. Perfected. Complete. Purposeful. 

And worried. Defensive of who might come for the beautiful human.

Castiel gripped his other tighter, earning him an endearing mumble. 

They were almost to the nest. Almost home. 

 

* * *

 

Dean’s head felt fuzzy, like he’d been holding his breath too long. Like the world suddenly turned and then stopped and then… he was standing. On solid ground. He swayed like a sailor walking on land for the first time in months.

A hand slipped down off of him and… he fell. Slipped. _Collapsed._

A loud shriek could be heard, getting fainter. 

It was windy.

It was warmer wind than before.

Green and brown.

Brown and green.

Everything felt fuzzy and-

_Shit. I’m falling. Fuck fuckfuckfuck FUCK!_

“Uhg!” The wind was knocked out of him as something dug into his gut.

He saw the ground retreating from him

The angel. The angel had caught him.

He couldn’t really breath until there was solid ground again. Dean gripped to the angel, willing himself to keep aware of his surroundings.

“Ego paenitet. Ego sum ita paenitet. Haec est mea culpa.” A panicked, breathy whisper huffed into his ear.

Dean breath was unrestrained. Falling. He just saw it in his head. On repeat. Like it was still happening. He couldn’t. He couldn’t stop it.

The angel rearranged him to a princess carry. He was just glad not be responsible for his own weight.

His heart thumped against his chest. Pounded unrelenting. He might be sweating, but he’s _cold_.

His head. It felt fuzzy. He could see brown. He felt dizzy.

He was breathing. This was good. Breathing is good. He was breathing too hard. Hyperventilating. He should stop that.

But there he was. Falling. Falling.

Just as the angel caught him, he started back at the top. Falling. 

Why? Why couldn’t he of done better? Dean felt his hands prickle, like they had been asleep. He tried to move them, but a shot of pain raced through them, so he put that on the back burner.

His face felt numb. Tight. 

He was aware, for the record. He knew when the angel entered into its tree and soared down to the bottom of the enclosure.

Dean knew that he was in a hollowed out tree, that just happened to be the biggest freaking tree he’d ever seen because the space was open.

He knew the angel carried him and sat down on the floor. He knew the angel was crying. He knew he was hyperventilating and he knew this would take a while to come down from.

The angel was rocking him back and forth. One hand supporting Dean to lean his side into the angel, and the other hand cupping Dean’s cheek and stroking his thumb across Dean’s cheek. The angel’s head was tucked over Dean’s, so that the angel’s lips were next to Dean’s ear and the angel’s cheek was pressed against Dean’s temple.

It registered that if the angel was crying, that angels _could_ cry. Dean let out a snort. Or tried to. It came out more of a cough-while-getting-punched-in-the-gut sound. Followed by actual coughing. The angel retracted his head and stroked Dean’s throat until he stopped coughing.

This was stupid. He was so stupid. He should just be able to stop. He’s telling himself to stop, but it won’t work! 

Dean tried to move his face. It was tingly. His mouth was stuck in a pursed o shape. His hands weren’t doing much better. They looked mangled. The wrists curled into themselves. Fingers and thumbs fixed straight and clamped to each other. They _hurt_. Just sitting there, they hurt, worse if he tried to move them. 

Dean felt the inevitable tears that had been pushing at him, finally spill over. It was the most cathartic way to feel broken he’d ever experienced. 

The angel rocked them back and forth, saying something panicked, quickly, desperate. Then, the angel took a deep, long breath and tucked Dean’s head under his chin, with his lips against Dean’s ears and his cheek against Dean’s temple. 

The angel’s words were quiet, whispered. The angel slowly stroked Dean’s hair. Petted it. Ran his fingers through it. Lightly scratched his nails against it. 

Dean’s forehead was pressed against the angel’s throat. He could feel the vibrations of the angel’s words, even if he couldn’t make sense of them. 

It was… relaxing.

More than it should have been, but something about the feeling, about the sound made him go limp. His hands and face were still stuck, but he felt relaxed in a way that he hadn’t in a long time.

He cried quieter, in little huffs. Trying to hear the angel’s foreign words.

The tears made his eyes itch, but he was too drained and his limbs felt too limp to wipe them away. So Dean turned and rubbed his head into the angel’s neck. It felt good, really good to rub his face on the angel.

He was so tired. He had been so scared for so long, he just couldn’t keep it up anymore. 

It took a while longer, but the angel kept whispering and rocking him, and running his fingers through his hair until he fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

He had failed. He had failed his mate. His mate _fell_. Right out of his arms. He didn’t know what he did, just that he did it wrong.

But his was in them now, safe in his arms. Gripped tight and sheltered from the outside world.

That’s what Castiel thought until he noticed his mates breathing. It was different than before. Father. More erratic. His mate rocked back and forth with the force of his breath. His chest straightening, then slumping. Straightening, then slumping.

Castiel carried the beautiful man into his nest. He regretted choosing to spread his wings and glide down to the base level of his home. His mate had flinched and shook at the drop. Another mistake.

His own breathing was erratic. He just let his mate _fall_. He thought he was holding on tight enough, the man seemed like he wanted to stand on his own, a guiding hand just in case. It wasn’t good enough. He needed to make this better. He needed to make amends.

His mate’s hands. His beautiful, speckled hands. They were so cold. He tried to massage the lithe, strong fingers, but his mate choked out a cry. His mate was in pain.

Castiel had not cried in any recent memory he could recall, but here was the angel, tears freely flowing. 

He sat down with his mate and settled them against each other. The beautiful man, his beautiful, perfect mate was _cold_. It was an ugly feeling. 

He wrapped his wings loosely around his mate, not touching him with them, but acting as a trap for heat.

The angel gently reached out to his other and cupped his face. He was cold. Too cold. Too cold to be acceptable. He idly rubbed a thumb against his other’s soft cheek as he rocked back and forth. He knew the motion to be soothing. He hoped his mate would find it so.

When his mate began to cry, Castiel broke, his own tears coming faster. He tried-he tried to apologize to the man, but he knew that there was no understanding between their tongues. What could he do? Had to help his other, his mate.

Castiel calmed himself and did the only thing he knew how to do. He loved this man. This beautiful, fragile human. He said so, a thousand different ways. He loved he man. Care aching through his fingertips as he brushed though his mate’s hair. Caressing it in every way he wanted to. He whispered his devotion. 

His heart turned to glee when his beloved relaxed in his arms. He even let out a few tears of desperate joy when his mate began to scent mark him. His mate was truly a breathtakingly, amazingly forgiving being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Castiel's bit at the end feels rushed. I might flesh it out a bit more. What do you guys think?
> 
>    
> If you're wondering about the panic attack, the face going numb and hands getting curled in on themselves. Yes, that can happen. It's due to overoxidation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Dean not being able to breathe for five seconds.

He’s warm.

It’s a nice feeling. What’s not a nice feeling, is the ache in his head. Pressure. He can’t breathe out his nose, he’s too congested.

He blinks his eyes open and is surprised to see the angel asleep. His head tilted away from Dean, at an angle that the angel would just have to open it’s, his, eyes to see all of Dean.

The angel is beautiful for a male specimen. Soft-looking charcoal black hair mussed chaotically. Long, dark eyelashes rested against his cheeks. Light pink lips barely parted, slacked in sleep.

The beast looked peaceful. Deep breaths sinking and rising the chest Dean is pressed against. Dean takes a moment for it to register, along with being held by arms, he’s also being encompassed with wings. Giant, black wings. 

He can barely see them without shifting his head, something he’s not prepared for the consequences of quite yet, but one of them was lying limp over the top of him, akin to a blanket.

The arms around him were firm, unmoving. He realized his head was lying on the angel’s bicep, keeping his head aloft and unstrained for the duration of his sleep. The angel’s other arm held him firmly around the waist. For how relaxed the angel seemed to be, the creature was obviously not going to willingly let him go, not even in sleep.

A new wave of panic flutters through Dean. He pushes it back down and does an inventory of his body, assessing damage.

His hands are sore. They resist his light stretching of them, opening and closing is fine, but his wrists are the worst.

His jaw was tight. He experimentally opens his mouth flexing his jaw, but when he goes to close it a pop resounds loudly.

The angel is immediately awake, eyes searching Dean’s face rapidly. Dean freezes under the angel’s attention, staring as the angel looked him over. A hand slowly came into Dean’s peripheral vision. The man couldn’t help the flinch that jarred his neck, tucking his chin down and away, shoulders curling in on themselves. 

It wasn’t that Dean was scared, he was, but the hand had appeared so close to the corner of his eye, his body just reacted.

Would this offend the creature? That scared him more than anything. He was alive. Vulnerable. Easy to attack, to torture.

The angel stilled, and waited. Hovered. He didn’t look angry. In fact, the only emotion Dean could see on the angel’s face was concern, eyes flicking between Dean’s. 

Slowly, the angel advanced, lightly tracing Dean’s jaw before rubbing it slightly. Pressing up to under the ear and back down to the hinge. It didn’t hurt too bad in the first place, but the light massage is undeniably pleasant. 

Does he move or stay still? Dean tries to factor out his options. With the angel surrounding him, avoiding any attack is nigh unmanageable.

The angel moves his hand, up to Dean’s forehead, lightly tracing a finger over the breadth a few times before combing back his hair.

Dean wants to tell him to stop, but he chokes over the words when his too dry throat betrays him. Sending him into a dry heaving coughing fit. The tickling feeling in his throat makes him want to gag. He tries to redirect the air, breath through his nose, but his stuffed nose makes it impossible and only leaves him gasping for air, bringing more coughing. His body shakes with each cough, his eyes watering slightly in their determination to squeeze together as tightly as possible.

A hand came to his throat, stroking it lightly. Dean’s body reacts immediately, pushing the hand away and rolling away from the angel. Something stops him from getting as far away as he wanted to. The angel’s wing had caught him.

It was soft. Softer than Dean could imagine any part of a bloodthirsty beast could be. The wing cradled his whole body with room to spare. He’s oddly positioned on his side, hands inadvertently skewing the feathers as his hands graze them.

When his coughing ceases, Dean risks a glance back at the angel, who doesn’t look particularly perturbed, but a mixture of bittersweet happiness and attentive contemplation. 

The wing shifted under him, causing Dean to try and reassert his balance, skewing more feathers. It was like trying to move around on a water bed, some parts were unpredictably denser than others. Dean sees the angel getting closer, and after a quick look down, he sees that the wing is moving him in towards the angel.

What surprises Dean is that the angel doesn’t reach out for him. It just smiles at him. It’s a very human smile. Closed mouthed, soft, but sincere. The feeling that something was escaping his understanding was pressing.

“Bonum mane.” The gravelly voice said softly. So soft in fact, that Dean fought the urge to ask him to repeat it, but that would be useless. It didn’t matter if the angel spoke louder or put more force on each syllable, Dean couldn’t understand.

Yet, the angel looked as if he wanted a response. He sat there patiently, hopeful eyes attentively looking at Dean, fingers worrying the tip of the wing Dean was occupying. It was waiting for… him?

“Hi?” 

The angel let out a slow breath, face sinking into a look of absolute contentment. The angel’s fingers creeped up it’s wing towards Dean, taking one of his layered shirts open tails in it’s hand, rubbing the material between it’s thumb and forefinger. 

“Terribis me. Tu licet?” The angel raised it’s eyebrows waiting for a response.

Dean just shook his head at the creature. “I don’t, uh, I don’t know what you’re saying.” _How intelligent is this angel if it doesn’t know that we don’t speak the same language?_

An odd thought crossed Dean’s mind. _Does it know what I’m saying?_

The angel looked vaguely surprised and worried, then narrowed his eyebrows in concern. He rubbed Dean’s shirt between his fingers, as he looked up and down Dean, cocking his head as if confused.

The angel crept an open palmed-hand onto Dean’s stomach, pressing down lightly. Dean was going to tell him to shove it where the sun don’t shine, but-

“Ow!” Dean yelped, shoving the angel’s arm away.

The angel didn’t look hurt by the reaction, face steeled, simply redirecting his effort to Dean’s outstretched arm. Skimming down from Dean’s shoulder to his hand, the angel starts lightly massaging his hand. His sore, stiff hands.

“Dude! Ow. _Stop!_ ” He tries to jerk his hand back.

The angel keeps a grasp on his hand, no longer applying pressure, but lightly stroking the back of his hand. Up each finger, down each finger. The touch was so light, it almost tickled.

Dean tries to pull his hand back again, to which the angel rubs his wrist with the same light caressing touch he showed the fingers and placed Dean’s hand back into his own possession. 

“Geeze, man. What is with you and the grab hands?”

The angel shot Dean a small smile, perhaps an encouragement to keep talking, and lightly ran one hand down one leg and up the other, staring at Dean as he did so. 

Dean carefully showed no reaction, just to test the water for the angel’s response, and was pleasantly surprised when the angel moved on. The wing holding him turned as the angel pressed a hand against his chest and another against his back, turning him over. Dean fumbled a little, managing to get onto his hands and knees, rather than rolling flat on his stomach. 

He was blowing this joint. As soon as the angel’s hands became lax in their grip on Dean, he thrust himself backwards, off of the wing. Staggering a bit before standing and taking a good few steps backwards.

The world went fuzzy, spots of black clouded his vision. Vertigo hit him light a freight train, causing him to bring up his arms for balance. Stabbing pain shot through his skull like a lightning bolt. A hand, his hand, whipped to the side of his head. His vision was completely black when he knees buckled.

Rather than the floor catching him, a strong pair of arms immediately wrapped around him. They guided him to what felt like a firm couch. His vision was returning, but he closed his eyes anyway. He realized he was panting as was laid back against the furniture. 

Even sitting he was dizzy, all the blood had rushed from his head. Two hands came to cup Dean’s face, slowly moving up, rubbing in circles up to his temples.

It felt good. Better than it should have. To have the strong, but gentle fingers carding through his hair. Pressing lighting at his temples, relieving the pressure. Slow, deep circles. 

A weight presses against his lap. Warmth encompassing him. The world outside his eye lids gets darker. Calmer.

He’s still panting, trying to catch his breath, it isn’t working particularly well, but his breathes are deeper. 

He feels scratchy stubble graze his cheek. Something soft, like lamb’s wool, glances his forehead. The ministrations on his head dip and stroke his neck. Down to the base, soft circles press into him. Up to the nape, right along his vertebrae, firm, callused fingers dig wonderfully into the tense muscle. Relief tremors through him.

Dean can hear the angel open his mouth and inhale. 

“Et cessabit. Salvum me cum est.”

Dean shivers and feels his entire body go lax, as words are whispered into the shell of is ear.

After a minute of similar ministrations and a particularly deep breath and release, Dean finds his lips captured. It _burned_. Not his lips, his throat. He wants to cough. Turn away. Gag. Throw up. But the angel holds him still. He feels something pushing, spilling down his throat, he feels like he needs to swallow. It felt like chugging ice water after brushing his teeth with extra minty toothpaste. 

It’s only been a moment, but his body is fighting for air. Not able to breathe through his stuffed nose and his mouth blocked off, his lungs pulse, trying to suck air in where none could be found. He pounded against the angel’s chest to try and make him stop. The only response was the continual soft circular rubbing on his temples.

He knew it had only been a handful of seconds, maybe five, but as soon as the angel pulls away, Dean is sucking in air. His chest heaves. The angel is cooing at him again, rubbing, skritching at the hair and skin behind his ears.

“Finita est. Primum est pessimum. Paenitet, carissimi.”

A hand trails down to cup his jaw. A thumb slowly wipes his lower lip over once, before idling dabbing at one corner, as if just feeling. Dean turns his head away as much as he can, giving the best miffed grunt he can.

“Paenitet, carissimi. Hoc velim titi iucunda.” 

The angel sounded sad. He should freaking sound sad! Dean rolled his tongue in his mouth trying to figure out what the angel had done. There was no distinguishable taste or residue on his tongue. His throat no longer burned, but there was an uncomfortable weight in his stomach. 

An exhaustion rolled over Dean. He was tired. Really tired. 

_What did it do?_

The angel, still astride on Dean’s lap, shifted the both of them so that Dean was laying down, carrying all of Dean’s weight for him. It patted down his hair a few times before it seemed satisfied enough to stand and walk away.

Soft padding stepped away from him, before returning promptly. A soft, down blanket covered Dean like a quiet snowfall.

The angel smooths the blanket out over him, making sure his neck is covered and his face is not. Satisfied, the angel gently pressed a hand against Dean’s head and laid a kiss high on his cheek. 

The angel walks away, out of sight, but makes quiet noises like he’s shuffling things around.

Dean knows he’s too weak to try and escape right now. Especially, with what the angel did to him. Whatever it was that it did to him. It obviously weakened him. What if… what if it was poison or venom, like an Arachne or djinn? What if angels needed something live to feed off of? Then that’s why he was here still alive. It’s going to keep him here, alive, and slowly feed off of him, until he’s withered away to nothing.

_Will it hurt? Will I starve to death? How long can it feed on me before I die? Before I want to die?_

Dean was stuck in a circle of thoughts, an ideation, back tracking and winding around itself. 

If he’s weak now, he’s just going to get weaker. Had it already fed on him? Was that what that was? If it’s going to keep him alive, then it’s going to have to feed him. Has the angel successfully kept a human alive before? No one really knows how old angels can get, but they keep stealing people, so the humans must die. 

He wasn’t sure which matter of death to pray for, only hoping for mercy where there was surly none to be found.

 

* * *

 

Castiel, mindful of being quiet, did he best to straighten up the nest without disturbing his beloved mate. He knew it would be a hard few days for his other, but his mate was scared, more scared than he’d mentally prepared for, emotionally prepared for. How was anyone supposed to know how much his heart would ache seeing his mate so scared and confused?

He knew his presence was both intimidating and comforting to his mate. Neither one of them had actually scented the other one properly. His mate smelled of sickness in a way that he had not yesterday, covering up his beautiful scent. Once his mate knew his scent and had it around him, he would be happier.

Their languages were not yet coalesced, but that would take time. They had time. That would make his mate happier. Castiel was thrilled that his mate was trying to converse with him, useless as it was. 

It was nice just to hear his mate’s voice. Comforting in a way Castiel hadn’t felt since he was a fledgling. He’d heard stories of mates refusing to speak, he’s glad that his was more merciful than that. He smiled to himself in the resounding happiness that his mate made him feel so perfectly whole, with nothing more than his clemency.

Castiel kept an ear on his mate’s heart rate, unhappily noting that it was slowly rising again. Heart rates could rise for many reasons, but one glance at his mate and he knew it to be fear. Worry. Dread. 

Castiel wasn’t quite sure what his other was afraid of. In all his lessons, he never quite understood why others were afraid of their mates. They were scared to leave their homes, scared to be in a new place, scared that their mate wouldn’t like them, scared that their mate couldn’t take care of them, that they wouldn’t like their mates, but he didn’t know which one Dean was.

He slowly and openly walked up to his mate, making sure he was visible upon his approach, but the beautiful man did not seem to see him. His mate’s eyes glossed over, darting, flickering around, like he was dreaming with his eyes open. 

“Carissimi?” Castiel called out quietly.

No response. Castiel took another few steps closer and called out to his mate again.

“Carissimi?”

His mate flinched and seems to recognize that Castiel is standing there, leaning over him, concerned. The man thrust out his hand, as if trying to stop Castiel from coming closer. This gave the angel pause, did the man not want Castiel closer because he was scared of the angel or because there was something he did not want the angel to know?

His mate babbled something in his mother tongue. It sounded like begging. Pleading. Castiel looked at his mate with a melancholy confusion. His heart was breaking; how could he comfort his mate?

“Carissimi?” Castiel wanted to get his love’s attention before advancing.

The man continued to babble, but he was aware of the movement when Castiel raised his hand to reach toward his other. The man tried to bat his hand away, but Castiel took it in his own and crossed it over his mate’s body. Effectively disarming his mate and trapping the other arm underneath. He categorically didn’t need his mate to waste any unnecessary energy uselessly thrashing about. Reaching out with this other hand, he felt his mate’s warm forehead. No, not warm. Hot.

Castiel was unsure how to proceed. He had limited to no experience with human illness. He knew that his mate was sick, stressed, too warm and that his heart beat was too fast.

His other needed to rest, but nothing Castiel did seemed effective for very long. As soon as Castiel hesitated in comforting his mate, stepping away for a few moments or falling asleep, his mate was restive and desolate. Castiel sat back and did something that he wasn’t sure about.

He sang.

He chose a lullaby, rather than a courting song, a piece his mother had sang to him as a fledgling. He wasn’t a prized singer, but for his mate he would try his best.

 

* * *

 

Dean had begged the angel to stay away from him, to let him go, to leave him be. He knew the creature didn’t know what he was saying, but something has got to give.

The angel seemed to of have named him, by the same four syllables coming out of it’s mouth every time it talked. The creature looked miserable. Resigned. Unsure. And the last thing that Dean ever thought was going to happen was this.

The angel sat back, licked it’s chapped lips, opening them with a small smack, taking a short aborted breath, before closing it’s mouth, exhaling though it’s nose and starting the loop over again.

The angel was… nervous. That made Dean nervous. Why would an angel be nervous? What was it going to do? 

The angel chewed on his lip for a bit, like he was mulling something over, before flicking his eyes up to Dean. The creature closed his eyes and took a deep breath, keeping his eyes closed, he began to sing.

The deep voice resonated a sweet song, with grace notes and trills that seemed a little oddly human on the creature. Gravel acting as a vibrato, churning the longer notes with nostalgic emotion.

Dean listens trying to figure out the purpose of the song, that the intent may be malevolent. Like a siren song, designed to hypnotize and capture. But there are too long pauses, like the angel is trying to remember the next part, or breathes in the middle of a phrase. The thought is quickly dismissed. The angel is just… singing. _To him._

The angel’s eyes are still closed, sitting up perfectly straight, rocking into the higher notes and away from the lower notes. His wings are relaxed, gracefully set against his back, sometimes lifting at the peaks of phrases, or brushing back and forth along the floor like a metronome with the melody, as if keeping time.

He was smiling. Just to himself. Dean took his time to stare. It was nice to not have something, someone, staring back. The angel looked happy. Relaxed. Serene. Dean could see what parts were the angel’s favorite, the creature smiled extra wide. 

Dean could start to pick out the melody. He’s not sure if the angel was repeating the song, or if there were as many verses at it seemed to be. Without more than a breath, a completely different melody came out on the angel’s tongue. The same soft nature, lilting high with trills and low rolling notes.

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, before the angel opened one of his eyes, peaking at the man. Seeing Dean stare back at him, he opened both of his eyes, never ceasing his singing. 

Dean noted how much harder it was to stare at the creature when he was staring back. Taking a last look at the angel’s eyes, he turned his head away.

He heard rustling, then footsteps, the singing getting slightly fainter, but it couldn’t of have been by much. Just rustling back and forth, the singing following it. 

Dean listened to the newly acquainted melodies. It was calming. He sniffed his nose, or tried to, as he still couldn’t get any air through it. It wouldn’t be so bad if he closed his eyes for a little bit, right?

 

 

He awoke to the too cold feeling, rushing down his throat into his stomach. Thumbs rubbed his cheeks in firm circles, unrelenting grip on his jaw. A mouth on his.

Dean whined, trying to turn away from the harsh feeling.

It took a few seconds before it was over and Dean could go back to the darkness.

 

* * *

 

Every hour, on the hour, Castiel sat next to his mate and connected their lips. His mate began sleeping through it, only whimpering slightly, his rest otherwise undisturbed.

Castiel was pleased. Very pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really, _really_ hope it’s not blatantly obvious what Cas is doing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phonetic awareness makes spelling so much harder!
> 
> I’m learning IPA transcription and my spelling, which wasn’t great in the first place, has officially gone way down the drain. Thank you, my coding and spelling Nazi friends, for spell check.
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry for updating late. I got stuck and was freaking out that it wasn’t going in the right direction. I kept rewriting until it turned out right. (And that it didn’t end up in Castiel being incredibly OOC for this AU.) Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Enjoy!

Dean has had nightmares before. A lot of them. Really, too many to count. More than he would really ever, ever like to reveal. But here's the thing with nightmares, you wake up from them. Eventually, at least. When he opens his eyes he realizes that he is in fact not in a nightmare, it wasn't a dream. It wasn't a fantasy, it wasn't anything, anything like that it was... It was... Real? 

Everything since he heard Sam’s voice was muddled. Like watching a movie in fog. The general gist was there, but all of the details were blurred out, badly erased.

He's pretty sure he dreamed last night. It was about coldness. Darkness. Not really of darkness just, just someplace that you couldn't, couldn't breathe. Dean's surprised when he goes to take a breath he can breathe. 

Through his nose. 

_Well, that's a pleasant, little something for me. Dean thinks to himself._

Another pleasant surprise for Dean, was that the angel was nowhere to be found. He felt much better than yesterday. Calmer. Defiantly more energy. He listens just to make sure that he is in fact alone. He is. 

Along with other weird things, including feeling light years better than before, he’s not hungry. Which Dean takes as a good sign, maybe he hasn’t actually been here for all that long. He won’t be weakened by the fatigue of his body breaking down his muscle to fuel him.

He sits up slowly aware that there may be a sudden rush to his head. The contraction of his stomach hurts like a bitch. He tugs up his shirt to find a large, angry purple bruise across the width of his stomach. A few pokes tell him that it’s deep, but there are no broken ribs. Possible organ bruising, but there are no other symptoms that draw concern enough to warrant immediate attention. All of this is put on a back burner until he gets out.

Heaving himself up with as much momentum and as little muscle as he can muster, he progresses into a sitting position.

Taking in his surroundings, he sees just one room. The one that he's in. It's large. Larger than any one room should be. It’s also circular, which honestly was the most difficult type of architectural design if Dean had any opinion on it. Which he did.

A glance around the room tells him that he is, in fact, alone. He knows that he won’t be for long.

A quick perimeter check gave Dean some cabinets, a table, no windows, and stairs. The stairs look like they’re carved into the wall, winding up and around. His eyes follow the stairs as they go up and up and up. And up… Dean’s eyes were no longer on the stairs, but on the wall, eyes searching, waiting to find the ceiling. 

It was there. It was just, Dean tried to estimate, but there wasn’t really much for his eye to reference. About three or four hundred feet. It looked tapered, that the space got smaller and smaller the higher it got.

His eye flicked back to the stairs, they completed a half circle around the room and lead to a small landing and… a door! 

He springs up, perhaps faster than he should have, because his head spins a little. Not enough to stop him, though, just enough to make him pause, take a deep breath, wait for the spinning to cease, then push on.

The steps are sturdy. Dean is fairly sure that they’re made of solid wood, rather than cheap hollow ones. At least that’s one comfort he can take in drudging up the stairs. At first, he takes his time, making sure that they are safe to climb and not an imminent death trap. Once that is ascertained, he bounds up them, conserving energy by only taking one stair at a time, but going a quick as possible. He’s still attempting to make the least amount of possible noise, should the angel be in hearing range.

He’s panting when he gets to the platform and the blessed door. There’s no knob. 

He tries pushing it. Forward. To each side. Up. Down. He even tries to find a groove to tuck the tips of his fingers into and pull it towards him. Nothing works.

He’s ready to start kicking the door, when he hears a rustling coming from below. Like a wind, or not quite dry leaves being crushed. 

One glance over the edge of the platform gives him the unwanted memory of falling down outside. Seeing the ground coming closer and closer. 

_Nope. No falling today for me. Thank you._

He lays chest down on the platform to peak down to the room below. Nothing. _Weird._

_Dean takes another look at the door. Did he do something to it?_

His memory is too fuzzy to really make any assumptions, but it’s something to keep in mind. He takes a last glance at the door before making his way back down the stairs. What goes up must come down.

He stops halfway down when he notices something on the wall. He’s surprised he didn’t notice it before. It’s on the opposite side of the stairs, so there is really no way for him to get to and inspect it, nothing to hoist himself up there.

Challenge accepted.

The thing looked like a bunch of sticks slapped together with cement or mud. It was oblong, maybe fifteen by ten by ten feet. Roughly.

If he moves the table over to the wall, puts a chair on it, he might be able to jump it. Dean makes a note of where everything is place, so he can move it back afterwards. Plan in mind, he jogs his way down the rest of the stairs, moves the chairs out of the way and scoots the table to the wall.

Dean makes a note of the craftsmanship on the table, chairs too. They have swirling details, Celtic looking knots. Hoisting the chair up on the table was a little difficult, due to the heavier weight than he expected, but shifting its weight and using the table to help bear some of the weight on its trip up made quick work of the project.

Sturdy and even on the ground, Dean had no hesitation climbing up on the table, then the chair. Even standing on the balls of his feet with his hands reaching up, he only grazes the side of the nest. He needs a good three feet to reach the lip of the structure. Looking at it more closely, it looks like it’s made up of branches, rugged and upon visual inspection, trustworthy. 

He glances back at another chair and debates stacking it on top of the one he’s on. It would give him another two feet, but any jump from there would be unstable, besides climbing up on it. Deciding against it, he tests a few hops on the chair. It’s stable. His vertical leap is good, but it’s not three feet good. 

An idea strikes him. He steps off the chair, onto the table and one hand planted on the table, he hops- off of the table. Grabbing another chair, he puts it on top of the table. Hoisting himself back up, he moves the chairs so they are back to back, stabilizing each other. Lining it up just right, Dean climbs on the backs of the chairs and jumps without reservation.

His hand catches the lip of the structure, barely. An arm over it would have given him leverage, but he’s not going to let go. He keeps the firm grip of his right hand, despite the rough bark and twigs biting into it. Swinging his left arm up, it finds purchase and he slowly pulls himself up, kipping and swinging, muscling himself up. He’s really not doing the bruise on his stomach any favors, when he finds it pressed into the side of the structure.

His arms resting, safely stabilized on the lip of the construction more on his stomach than hips, as he would of preferred, he sees that the structure is like a bowl. Nearer to the center, blankets twisted and pillows thrown a strew, and in the exact center was-

_Shit._

The angel. So, it wasn’t gone. And it was looking at him. And it has bed head. 

 

* * *

 

Castiel wakes up to the jolting vibrations of the table being moved across the floor. Rubbing an eye, he calculates how long he’s been asleep and since he gave his mate his last transfer.

His sleep has been interrupted, yet again, but one peek over the side of his nest presents him with his wonderful mate. The fascinating human was moving things around, in an unusual way, if he remembered his studies correctly. He didn’t know his mate’s intentions until after they had already occurred.

When his mate jumped to be with him, Castiel was in near shaking in ecstasy. His mate, despite being hurt, despite having been smelling of sickness not a few hours ago, was seeking him out. For warmth, comfort, safety. He could give his other those things, desperate to give his other those things. 

He was displeased with himself for not waking up when his mate did. To not be there for him, he may have been scared. Upon not seeing his source, he sought him out. His mate’s efforts would be rewarded.

Not wanting to risk his mate falling, he stretched out his wings to assist their reunion. One wing outstretched to prop his mate up by the feet, the other ready to catch him and bring him closer. 

 

* * *

 

Dark wings outstretched, encasing him in their darkness. Dean briefly considered letting go, falling back down to the table. His choice was made for him when a wing nudged under his feet, tipping him, then lifting him onto a waiting wing.

“Carissimi, me paenitet et solliciti estis.”

As the wing brought him closer to the beast, he tried to fight the urge to scramble backwards. 

He felt himself being lifted off of the wing by warm arms, turning him, manipulating his body, until he’s tucked back to chest against the angel.

“Sit tibi purgandum, carissimi.” 

The angel noses his hair against the grain. It has that weird stretch, that’s uncomfortable at first, but soon fades away. The creature was being fastidiously thorough, nosing up every last strand of hair on the back of his head.

Dean could put up with this. Maybe he could convince the creature to let him outside and then he could… run for ten hours. So, quite possibly that wasn’t the right way to go about it, but the goal of getting outside, convincing the creature somehow, was better than nothing. 

He was going to need food sooner rather than later, and he was pretty sure angels ate. So, he would see the angel leave and he could see how he opened the door. Wait for five minutes and do the same. He could bear with the angel cooing and getting handsy with him until-

Shivers racked up Dean’s spine and he cringed in response to-

“ _Ew! _No! Did you just lick me? No!” He reached a hand back, either to feel in disbelief or to push off the angel, he wasn’t sure. However, before his hand landed on either, it was intercepted by the angel’s own hand and a low growl.__

Dean found his back without support and found himself supine with the angel sitting astride him, looking at his hand like it was starving, wet kitten. 

Dean, uncomfortable with _any_ part of his body being looked at like that, tries to rip his hand away. Not only to get it out of the angel’s grasp, but to see what exactly the angel is getting fluffed up over, because Dean sure as hell can’t feel anything incredibly painful coming from his hand. 

The cooing and fussing over what may only be a scratch, was starting, past starting, to grate on Dean’s nerves.

 _Carissimi. Carissimi._ Over and over again.

The creature brings the hand to his mouth and begins to _lick_ it. The feeling makes Dean squirm.

“Dude. _Stop._ That’s gross.” The tongue is rough enough, and there must be enough damage on his palm, that the ministrations sting. It doesn’t hurt, at least, not enough that he thinks that any blood was drawn.

When the angel has had it’s fill, it curls Dean fingers down and kisses them. It goes between cooing carissimi and other gibberish. 

Dean explodes.

“My name is Dean! Not ‘ _carissimi_ ’. Dean. Got it? _Dean?_ ”

“Dean?” The angel parrots back.

“Yes. Dean.” 

“Castiel.” 

“What?” 

“Dean.” The angel points at him. “Castiel.” The angel points at himself.

 _Oh._ The angel has a name. Dean wants to chastise himself that _of course_ they have names, but… why would he? Why would he know that? Given the fact that the angels have a language, at least one, if not, more, then they would have names. 

The angel is looking at him curiously as Dean has just been staring back, eyebrows scrunched together and mouth set in an uneven frown. 

“Castiel?” The angel speaks his name again. _Castiel_ speaks his name again.

“Castiel.” Dean repeats and nods slightly, barely dipping his chin.

The creature looks overjoyed. Wings shaking so hard, they’re practically vibrating. 

“Carissimi. _Dean._ Dilectum meum. Meo modo. Nomine tuo quos dedisti mihi. Hic et ego te servabo.” The words were said with such passion that Dean wanted to get away. He wanted to leave this place and never return. He wanted to run. To push. To fight.

He wanted all of this to stop. To go away. He wanted a drink.

Because of a name. A _name_. Why would a creature be please with a name? A means of identifying one entity from another. He’s angry at himself for giving it up. For giving a piece of himself willingly to the angel. That now the angel has a means of identifying him, separating him from other humans. Finding him if he doesn’t manage to escape.

Maybe he’s overthinking it. Angel’s don’t have computer databases that can search him down. Probably. They don’t have networks of angels to track down particular humans. Probably. 

His lack of certainty makes him want to punch something. Particularly, the angel, if Dean had a choice about it. Which he doesn’t. He feels stuck. Frozen. Powerless.

The angel has already been feeding on him, he doesn’t want to give any more than what’s been taken.

And now he knows the angel’s name. _Castiel._ Even just thinking about it makes him want to purge it from his head. Burn it. A name that makes the creature, the monster, more human. Less suck your face off, more let’s have dinner together. He doesn’t _want_ to know the angel’s name. He wants the beast dead.

Like a chime on a clock, the Castiel’s head perks up and after tucking Dean’s arm to his side, rendering both arms useless, he takes Dean’s jaw in one of his hands. With the other the angel gesture’s to his own lips, then to Dean’s.

Memories of painful coldness make him wince. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want the creature to feed on him. He doesn’t want to die. Not yet. 

“No.” Dean shakes his head.

Castiel smiles ruefully and nods yes.

Dean seals his lips together, clamping his teeth together. There is no way he’s going to let the beast have what it wants. It’s going to have to rip it from him. 

The angel easily gets a finger past his lips, sliding them to the back of his mouth, past the molars where there is a small space between the cheek, teeth, and throat. 

His mouth opens just a crack, involuntarily. The angel slips the finger between his teeth, so Dean does what he does best and bites as hard as he can, hoping to break the finger, or draw blood-

 _Shit._ What if ingesting angel blood was like ingesting vampire blood? _Shit shitshitshit. NO._

He lightens up the bite, he doesn’t taste anything metallic. Castigating himself to his stupidity, and now the damage may be done. Though he’s never heard of anyone being negatively affected by angel blood, he’s never heard the opposite. Or of anyone living long enough to comment about it.

The angel lays his open mouth on Dean’s, and all he is expecting is pain and bone-chilling coldness.

What he gets instead is… different. He knows it’s not a kiss, but he can’t help, but compare it to one. There is next to no friction. It isn’t cold, but it isn’t warm either. A lukewarm energy trickling down his throat. It kind of tickles. It comes in pulses, in time with the just barely there pulsations of the angel’s lips.

He’s kissed other people. Been kissed. So, he knows how to breathe out of his nose and not break contact.

After a few seconds, he realizes that the angel hasn’t stopped, might not stop for a while.

Opening his eyes, he sees darkness. The slimmest cracks of light show him that the creature’s wings are surrounding them, blocking out most of the light. From the wrists to the scapulae of the angel’s wings are pressed together. Primaries draped down, creating a cocooned dome around them. 

It’s an odd feeling. Having the world be so small. He feels small. Warm. 

The angel’s eyes are closed. The faint rubbing of their lips have caused Dean to become hypersensitive to each movement. It feels like he’s being kissed. Gently. With admonition. With clarity. With purpose. 

When was the last time he was kissed? Maybe a week ago.

When was the last time he was kissed with tenderness? Maybe never. Still never, because it’s not a kiss. It’s a _feeding_.

The angel _finally_ pulls back and takes out the saliva coated finger from between his teeth. Dean closes his mouth quickly, just in case. The angel just smiles and hums mellifluously and gives him a peck on the lips.

Dean must have made an odd face because the angel chuckles, smiling wider and kisses him again.

The angel parts it’s wings, letting in more light. Dean winces and groans at the light, trying to bring a hand up, but it’s trapped. Sandwiched between his thigh and the angel’s calf. It hurts his head. The lights are too bright after the calming darkness.

The creature has this stupid fond look on his face, smiling, tilting his head to the side, breathing out a slow breath that quivered with an un-vocalized laugh. Mercifully, the light retreats and the darkness once again claims the small territory. 

It feels even darker after the sudden burst of light, eyes trying to adjust again.

The angel shifts behind him, propping him up on his side, so that they’re back to chest again. The wings shifting carefully to let the least amount of light in. 

It’s almost déjà vu, the angel, that he now knows as Castiel, is nuzzling his hair and licking it every once in a while.

Dean doesn’t have strength to fight it this time. He feels like he’s drifting, he knows it’s the poison, or venom more likely. He isn’t sleepy, it’s different. He’s not tired, just mellow. He feels floaty, calmer, letting the darkness shade his world.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update.
> 
> Check out my other story Volitant. Which updates with more consistency than this one.
> 
> Warnings: Depressing thoughts, fear of heights, blood

His mate was beautiful. Not simply pulchritudinous, but was resilient, valiant. Beautiful in mind, body, and soul.

Castiel is not foolish and without cunning. He knew his little mate had not been won over yet, was not yet his in mind. Soon enough. Castiel was patient.

He was weakened from the transfer, but giving his mate what he could was his pride. His body would make more, get used to making more, now that he had his mate to sustain. His mate. His _Dean._

His Dean who had a name. A blessed name that was his. His own, to keep, forever.

His wonderful other would soon understand. Would soon know how important he was. How loved he was.

His perfect mate was filthy, dusty with dirt from another land, away from their temporary home.

Dean was pliant beneath his tongue. Not like a fussy fledgling, abhorrent to bathing. 

His mate had a warrior's cut. He was perfect. Prepared to be a groom’s consort. Primed to become his medium. 

The hair was short enough to feel rough on his tongue, long enough to feel soft on his cheek. 

Guilt rose in his chest. He needs to leave, to fly. Their homestay was guarded, warded, but the area surrounding it had not been properly controlled before he had come. When he had been here alone, he had felt safe, but now with his mate, he knew the stakes were much higher than his own life.

He cannot let his body get weak, not when he is on the cusp with a courtship. That would be a disgrace. His teacher would be disappointed in him. His family would consider disowning him. If he were to become lax in his duties, in his promise, he would surely tear out his blood feathers first. 

He does not want to leave Dean. Not by himself, not so soon. But he could not let his borders go unpatrolled, nor his body left to wither. 

“Beloved,” Castiel spoke, breath ghosting over the shell of his mate’s ear, “Just for a time, I must be parted from you. I will return with haste and we will be connected again.” 

Castiel longs for the day that they will never be parted, no matter the distance, that he will always be able to feel of his other’s needs and come unto him.

 _Time._ Castiel reminds himself. The brothers of time, Aion and Chronos, could be fickle, stretching one moment into infinity, or collapsing a lifetime into seconds, but Castiel has waited for much less for far longer.

He picks up his other, amused by the sweet sounds he made, and cradled his beloved against his chest. Swooping down, wings held out, glided them back down to the floor. 

Setting Dean down on the couch, he covered his mate with a blanket he had fashioned filled with the softest downy feathers from his last molt.

Hopefully, his scent would keep his mate calm and comforted. 

_Perhaps…_ Castiel considered, _One last transfer before I go._

He leaned down, expecting his valiant beloved to fight, as he had done before. To his pleasant surprise, Dean accommodated. Although he had to cut his cherished off, before he took too much. 

Castiel pulled away, woozy with dizziness. He tilted his head, amazed. Dean had _taken_ it. Absorbed it. Before, the transfer had been successful only in physical relocation, but…

Castiel’s chest swelled with pride. His mate, his amazing mate, was progressing faster than he had ever dreamed. 

He fought staying, the need to be with his other, his beautiful, his beloved, his medium, his Dean.

“I will soon be returned to you.” He slurred slightly more than he wanted to admit to.

He patted his mate’s head in fondness and staggered his way up the stairs.

He drew the sigil slowly, lost in thought, calculating how long it would be until he would return. It depended, truly, if there was anything in this territory that had not heeded the warnings and needed to be deterred. 

It wasn’t particularly large, he had no need for that here. It would not take long.

He knew his mate was watching him. Likely wondering what he had done wrong to make his source leave him. His heart wretched and twisted at the thought. He wanted to push comfort onto his mate, but he couldn’t. He would make up for it when he came back. 

He would steal every doubt away from Dean, and banish them. He would hold his other until he needed his next transfer, and until the one after that, and until the one after that. He would press kisses into his mate’s soft cheeks, feeling, breathing in the warm and goodness that was divine and whole. Feeling the flesh embrace him in closer.

He would cocoon Dean in his wings, making it dark as the way of night. Thread his fingers through his mate’s hair, making it stand up on end. Then pet it down to make it lie flat.

He would show his other that he loved him, is loving him, and will love him. 

He would show Dean in every way, every way that he could that he was to most beautiful and important being in Castiel’s world.

With that resolution, he stepped out the portal, sealed the door, and flew off.

 

* * *

 

Have you ever wanted a hug, but once you’re in it, you can’t feel it? That’s how Dean felt. He knew he was sick, floaty, from the venom, lying in the nest with the angel. He hadn’t been hugged a lot in his life, but every once in a while he just wanted to be held. Wanted to be loved. To be the center of somebody’s world.

It had been a long time since he had felt this way, that the craving set in. When he was a kid, he could just hug Sam. Sammy. Could just scoop him up and the kid would love it. He didn’t need an excuse; it was simply part of taking care of Sammy. Doing what he was supposed to do. Keeping his little brother happy.

But now… Now he didn’t have a reason. He had frisky, easy women at local bars who thought he was a mysterious bad boy. They weren’t wrong.

He could feel the arms around him. Feel the breath on his head. The chest behind him. Knees pressed into the backs of his thighs.

He could see the wings. Cascading around him, twitching every once in a while, rearranging as they needed to be. 

But he couldn’t feel it. Not really. He had dissociated from himself, from the body he knew as himself, from feeling the creature behind him.

He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t tired. He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t anything. 

He wasn’t _there_.

He wanted to punch someone and fall asleep. He was bored to restlessness, but didn’t care enough to get up. To fight.

He wondered when Sam was going to save him.

 _There._ That made him feel something. Guilt. Amusement. Desperation. Hope. Hopelessness. Weakness. Self-loathing.

It wasn’t Sam’s job to save him. It was Dean’s job, _his_ job, to save himself.

When the angel picked him up and took him out of the nest, down to the flat, familiar floor ground. He let himself be carried. Although, the sudden drop in his stomach as the angel glided down a story of feet woke him up more than he wanted to be. 

He was set down on the couch, and covered with a thick comforter. It smelled like the angel. 

When the angel leaned down to kiss him, to feed from him, to give him more venom, he took it. He took it and _pulled_. He wanted it. He wanted to sink down into nothing. He wanted the blackness. He wanted to become nothing. To sink into nothing. To feel nothing. He wanted it faster.

When the angel tried to pull away, he grabbed him, pulled him back and _sucked_. He wanted it. If he was going to die, he wanted to die faster. He would rather die now. If he was going to die, he wanted to die now, not later.

But then the angel drew away from him, stronger than him, easily breaking his grip, looking down at him curiously, he didn’t feel numb. He didn’t feel empty, or floaty, or weak. 

He felt energy.

He felt determined. He felt stronger.

Dean was more aware now. The angel, instead, looked dizzy. Disoriented, like he couldn’t quite find his balance.

After a few more pointless words and a limp pat to his head, the angel took up the stairs and marched up to the door.

Dean was immediately on guard, watchful. Intently taking in every movement the angel had to offer. The angel was leaving. _Leaving._ Now. Soon, he would know how to leave. 

The angel was slow and sloppy with his movements. Slowly going through the motions, like an out of date automated system. Perfect. Dean could watch and not miss any of the details.

The angel bit his own arm, and drew a symbol on the door with his blood. It wasn’t incredibly detailed, but it was difficult to see from where Dean was lying. When the symbol was apparently finished, the angel laid his hand upon the center of it and the symbol _glowed_.

The door opened. The angel stepped through. Dean could see the light outside. More greenery. And then it was gone. The door replaced. 

Dean breathed. A soldier’s calm.

He counted to sixty.

Then bolted. Up the stairs, before he could forget. He bit his arm. Not enough pressure the first time, too much bluntness with his molars, not enough dig. The second time he stopped, from the pain, but the third time, _blood_.

He traced a sloppy circle and the symbols the surrounded it the best he could and with a flurry of energy building in his chest, the hope, the determination, the knowledge of freedom, he pressed his palm against the symbol.

He felt something leave him. He felt a little less high. Maybe because it had worked so easily, and that almost always meant it was too good to be true.

But the _breeze_. He could feel the breeze on his face, rush into his lungs. Dopamine flooded his blood. It smelled like summer. 

There was no trace of the angel. No flapping heard.

He waited, watched, assessed. He needed a way to get down, and he was high. He remembers falling, down, down, down. 

He grimaces at the memory.

But looking now, it looks like he could of have fallen for a little longer. He was high. _Too high_.

_Son of a bitch._

There was no way he could jump it. If the tree was a thousand times smaller, he might’ve been able to scale it. But it wasn’t. So, he couldn’t. 

Options. Options…

What could he do?

He took a step out on the thick tree branch. The top was flat-ish, but the bark had good grip. It was dry and there was enough light that he could see well. 

He was in a forest, an old growth forest, as far as he could tell. The kind that told him humans hadn’t been there to mess it up, because their asses got kicked if they even tried to step on the roots of the trees, ten feet under the ground at the edge of the forest. 

There was a branch, belonging to another tree, a good ten feet under and maybe two feet of the edge overlapping with the branch he was on.

That tree was a climbing tree. The kind that no kid could resist. There were so many branches, arranged in a spiral pattern, that you could climb up it like a demented spiral staircase. 

These branches were a little further apart than that, and the further down he got, the further apart the branches would get. He would figure it out as he got there.

He walked several steps, to where the branch became more bendy, sinking under his weight. Crouching down, he pressed his chest against the rough bark, and skooched his way along the branch. His weight was better distributed, but soon the branch was too thin to do much good. Wrapping his arms around the branch tighter, tucking the branch under his right arm, flush with his triceps and pectoral, he kicked his legs off the side, letting his weight hang down.

Kipping his body weight, he moved steadily towards the other tree’s branch. When he was just a foot away from the overlap zone, and he felt like the branch he was hanging on was going to snap, he kipped his body weight up and over to land feet first on the other branch.

As soon as he began let go of the branch, just loosening his grip, it flew out of his hands, scraping them, breaking the skin. It drew his focus away that when he landed on the other branch, he only landed with one foot, the other pulling his weight over and under the branch.

Immediately, he threw his weight the other direction. It was an overcompensation. 

He cringed as the side of his calf beat in the wood, it slowed his fall, but couldn’t stop it. He was falling head first.

The next branch wasn’t too far down. He was too high. If he caught himself, he might break something, namely one of his ribs or tearing his shoulder grasping at the branch, possibly dislocating it. 

Instead he _pushed_ it, making his momentum change from vertical falling, to horizontal. Dad taught him that shooting at falling hammers. That was an interesting summer.

He kicked the tree trunk, getting himself back upright and hopefully countering at least a little of the speed he’d gained.

The next branch surprised him, but it was right under his feet and he went with it. Bending his knees, bracing for impact, he _hit_.

The speed was too much, at the wrong angle and _bam!_ He loose-kneed it, trying not to tense up, but there was nothing to absorb the impact.

He sunk back onto his tail bone and something popped. The reverberated energy threw his forward. His chest hit the branch, his cheek scraped the bark as he clung to the branch for all he was worth, arms wrapped around the branch like it was his prey and he hadn’t eaten in days.

He wasn’t slipping.

He opened his eyes and immediately closed them. _The ground_. He didn’t want to see it.

Pushing himself up, he teetered back until he felt the trunk of the tree on his back, keeping his hands on the branch, stabilizing himself.

He sat there. Back against the trunk of the tree, straddling the branch. Chest heaving. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to be on the ground. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t on the ground. He couldn’t stay here either.

His heart rate raised as he tried to draw calming breathes to ease himself. To pretend like he wasn’t exactly where he was.

Fed up, he stood. He wasn’t going to calm down up here, staring out into the endless forest, up at the serene canopy dancing with the wind, or down at the abyss-like ground. 

He wasn’t as centered as he should be, but he wasn’t going to get better by standing still. He needed to move. He needed to progress. Even one branch. That would be one less than he needed. One more toward freedom.

The next branch wasn’t far. They were clustered up here quite closely. He braced part of his weight against the tree and hopped to the next branch.

His stomach dropped. His breath spiked. Holy shit, it felt like he was falling.

That he would just keep going down, down, down. That he was going down, down, down.

The picture, the memory, of him falling down, the ground coming towards him.

The thud of his foot hitting the branch snapped him back. He was panting, _hard_. He hadn’t even done anything, but he felt like he was going to pass out. He was breathing too hard. 

He tries to take a deep breath, but he can’t, his body pushing the air out as soon as he started sucking in.

Dean stops.

He stops everything. He holds his breath and he holds his body still.

His hands are shaking, but he can feel the bark under them. He wonders if he had ever felt bark before. As in, not just run your hand over it, but _felt_ it. 

He rubbed his fingers over it. Rubbed them until he couldn’t feel them anymore. The fine sensors on his fingers overstimulated to numbness of the fine complexities of the bark. He wonders if Sam would have any useless knowledge about-

_Sam._

He lets himself breath. He needed to get back to Sam.

The next bound wasn’t as hard. He felt more in control, of his body of his mind. He could focus on Sam. That was easy. He’d done that all of this life. He just needed to get back to Sam.

He leapt from branch to branch. Getting a rhythm going. One foot per branch. Each bound got him a few feet lower.

He was breathing hard from the physicality, the jolt up his leg each time he landed and kicked back off, jarring his breath out of him. This he could handle.

But soon the branches spread out. Further and further apart. Dean knew that if he stopped, he wouldn’t have enough momentum to start again. He had to make a choice. He guessed by his spinning surroundings that he was at least fifty feet from the ground still.

He either needed to stop now and figure out another way down, or keep going and hope that he won’t misjudge the distance.

He sees something in the corner of his eye. Black.

He makes two more branches down before stopping. He almost tips over, due to the momentum, but catches himself, arms out for balance, doing that funny dance, sticking his butt out, to gain and keep his balance.

Tucking his back against the tree, he sees the black blur become clear. _The angel._

_Shit._

It’s already back. Or at least doing a fly by. Maybe that’s it, just swinging by overhead and going off again.

The angel is already out of sight and Dean can’t tell if it’s going back inside it’s tree-home. 

Dean stays put, knowing movement will only draw attention to himself. He still has a way to go to get to the ground, but all of his progress will be moot if the angel finds him and takes off with him again.

Being closer to the ground than before barely helps with his fear of heights, or of falling. At least if he fell from here, he’ll probably just break both his legs instead of dying. Y’know, bright side. 

“ _Hello._ ” A chime of a voice rang.

He startled. Flinched away from the unexpected sound.

Before he knew he was falling, he was already caught. Multiple points of pressure on his shoulders and back of his thighs were slowly easing him down to the forest floor.

“ _Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. Are you here to play?_ ” The bright, feminine voice rang again, like bells reverberating in the wind. 

“Who- who’s there?” Dean found his voice as he saw the ground nearing, at a reasonable enough pace that he couldn’t feel the pit in his stomach.

“ _Mm~mm. The stranger in the forest doesn’t know who we are? How_ shameful.” The small voice grew dark. “ _We can have plenty of fun with you. We could use a bit of fun._ ”

 _Son of a bitch_. So the angel wasn’t the only thing in this forest. Well, freaking fantastic. 

The small points of pressure released, and Dean was sent crashing some ten feet into the ground. It wasn’t bad. He rolled, like he was trained to do. Like he practiced doing day after day.

There were several, at least eight, bright lights hovering above him, coming towards him. _Fairies_ , Dean realized. 

“ _Oh my!_ ” Another voice rang out. “ _It’s quite pretty, isn’t it?_ ”

A horrid, heartbreaking cry pierced through the forest, echoing anguish. Silence pounded against Dean’s ears.

Even the bright creatures stilled, as the quiet shook the air.

“Dean! _Dean!_ ” The voice resounded.

 _The angel._ Dean’s body tensed and he snapped his gaze back to the creatures.

The fairies looked at him for a moment, before large, demented smiles overtook their features.

He had just begun to draw a breath to call out when he was tackled.

 _Damn, those suckers are_ strong.

All the wind was knocked out of him, he found himself unable to speak or move.

They ripped at his hair, pulled him, pushed him around. They seemed quite amused by the grunts and gasps of pain that each action caused.

A particularly hard strike to his stomach, caused him try cry out particularly loud. Although his ability to form words was revoked, his ability to vocalize his pain was not.

“Cease!” 

_The angel!_ He could see him. If it didn’t hurt so much, he would-

The angel’s eye was drawn to something just off to the side of Dean. A pain burst through his shoulder, and a scream of wrath, rage rung through his ears. 

 

* * *

 

Rage coursed through his blood. _How dare they!_ The fiend had _bitten_ Dean, his other, his mate.

These fairies saw no reason to be afraid of him, of his kind. They thought their magic too strong. They will have no second chance to learn how wrong they were.

They pulled at his wings, most abandoning Dean to come and torment him instead. They pulled feathers aside, making them stick in the wrong direction, yanking at his blood feathers.

They weren’t strong enough to rip the blood feathers out, an army of them couldn’t do that, couldn’t detach them from the bone, but it was still enough to make him cry out, lash out. 

He flung out his wings, hitting them, trying to knock them off. There were too many of them. They ducked inside, pulling at the more sensitive interior feathers.

He was done.

He had had enough of their antics.

Manipulating the sun’s rays, he shortened them and directed it at one of the fairies. It _exploded_. Glorious. 

The other tinks drew back, surprised by the feat. Then they started _laughing_. Clapping their hands, giggling so hard they flew in somersaults. Pushing him harder. Ripping out a cluster of feathers and throwing them up in the air, dancing in them.

He got another one, but they kept laughing, kept coming back for more. Another one.

Castiel could hear Dean crying. It made him want to scream. Yet that would shatter his mate’s eardrums. 

Another one erupted. At least two of the terrors had the decency to flee. He destroyed them anyway. There would be no mercy for their actions. 

There was one last fiend clinging to Dean, using him as a flesh shield. 

_How dare it even_ touch _him._

Castiel charged at the pair, grabbing ahold of Dean, feeling the warm skin on his, the fairy flitted about, going behind his wings.

He just wanted to get his mate to safety, to comfort him, to heal him.

The fae laughed into his ear, pulling at more feathers. Castiel roared, grabbing the tink, squeezing it in his palm, but it kept _laughing_.

He threw it on the ground and focused the radiation at the menace. Its’ skin began to bubble up, then one of the bubbles popped, and finally it exploded. 

He gripped Dean tighter, bringing him closer into his arms. Rubbing his mate’s back as he panted into his other’s shoulder, trying to decide what to do. They couldn’t stay out here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s play a game called: Guess What Kind Of Mood I’m In
> 
> Sorry for the semi-cliff hanger here. I just am kind of stuck in indecision with how I wanted this to go. As in, I know where I want it to end up (in fluff), but how I want to get there. What I want Dean to know, to not know. 
> 
> Cool thing to stayed tuned for though: Dean grooming Cas' wings.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not quite dead yet. -Monty Python

His wings were bad enough that it would be difficult to fly, difficult to maintain direction, especially with Dean with him. Therefore, trying to get back to the main doorway would be foolish.

He looked down at himself. He was bleeding in multiple places. He would need to stop the bleeding, but getting Dean to safety, to hallowed ground, to retreat into asylum was more important. 

He could… use the other… door.

But what if he was careless again? He couldn’t let Dean go for a second if he went in the other way. The human wouldn’t be able to see. The physical strain on his own body would be… his punishment. His pride. His service.

He went to pick Dean up, the fragile human struggled, backing away, pushing against him.

He didn’t understand. Dean didn’t understand.

Keeping one hand wrapped around his beloved’s waist, Castiel raised a hand to his other’s face. Cupping his cheek, pressing their foreheads together. Speaking, _pleading_ , for Dean to understand. That they must leave. They must get back to safety.

There was no glint of recognition in Dean’s eyes. No understanding. No realization. His mate could not understand his words.

Castiel had one choice. One choice he would except. He would keep Dean safe above Dean liking him. His other’s safety was non-negotiable. His own acceptance… would acquiesce to being pushed aside.

Pulling his beloved to him, he picked up the human, having Dean wrap his legs around his waist. 

His mate yelled out. Thrashing. Gripping. His mate tries to unwrap his legs, to toe down and find the ground again, but Castiel grips him by the thighs, growling a warning.

Without waiting for his other to still more than a moment, Castiel turns and makes his way back to their homestay. Dean clings to him, jolted by the movement, the slight bounce that shocks up his spine every time Castiel takes a step.

Upon reaching the door, Castiel didn’t need to draw blood, he is already bleeding. He drew the sigil on the door and slapped his hand on it. Once inside, he whipped around and resealed the door, putting up all the extra wards that he knew and were quick, for good measure. He would put up more later. The ones that took time. He needed to take care of Dean first.

Down. Down the stairs. Under the tree. Under the roots.

Dean was clinging to him harder. The pitch blankness must’ve been frightening, or at least difficult to cope with, being so out of control. Unable to see, unable to move without knowing if he would fall.

Castiel tucks Dean’s face into his neck, willing his scent to calm his mate.

He tries to make his steps light as he pads down the hundreds of stairs, as to not jostle his other too badly.

His thighs burn. His mind is loosening around the edges, the same picture of stairs going down, down, down blur together that it takes a few moments of seeing water that he stops to recollect himself. The sound should have tipped him off, but the amount of blood he’s lost… It isn’t surprising that he got caught in the monotony of going down into the sacred pool of tranquility. 

There is a spring under the tree, the waters had a blessing laid upon them. A reason, _the_ reason, this homestay was chosen.

The stairs descend directly into the spring, going far under the surface of the water.

To his eyes, the waters glow. Beautiful flowers circle the pool, barely effervescent. Just enough flow to keep the water circulating, feeding the tree and the efflorescent blossoms. 

A step or two above the water’s edge, he sat down on a stair. Dean taking a moment more to take a deep breath, before raising his head and peering out into the great blackness. 

The man was truly blind here, grasping out into the dark abyss. Fingers made contact with the water. Castiel bite back laughter when Dean quailed back like the water had shocked him.

The water was warm, purifying, sweet with clemency. 

He pulled off Dean’s clothes, with minor difficulties, but soon enough, his mate was bare as the day the world was blessed. His other had curled in on himself, but hadn’t let go of Castiel. There was no other pillar of comfort, no other guide, no other seeing stone, in the unfamiliar maze of darkness. Not that Castiel would let him go. Unguided and lost. Afraid and unclaimed. Lost. Lonely. Empty. His other had made him whole, perfected him. Well, perhaps that thought should be amended, at no other time had Castiel been _as_ perfect, but he was not yet _perfected_. That would take time. To become whole. He never knew how much he longed to be whole, to be one, to be perfected. 

Lost. Adrift. Alone in an ocean of the imperfect. Of the desolate unclaimed, unspoken, and unwanted. Castiel could, would, _is_ guiding Dean though the water, holding him up to breath. Sacrificing, an immolation of his own freedom. It was a laughable thought. That that was all that he had to give up. That all he had to do to become perfect, would be to love and care for the most wonderful, beautiful, and brave mate he could ever ask for.

He carried Dean into the water, just down a few more steps to sit back down again. The water was up to his beloved’s chest, a gentle current lapping at the skin. 

His own tongue could only get his other so clean, an actual bathing ritual must be performed in order to keep his mate healthy and looking immaculate. 

Lifting up a handful of water, he brought it to Dean’s hair, letting it run down his mate’s neck and back into the pool.

The water was only slightly warmer than lukewarm, leaving a chill behind. Castiel wrapped a wing around his Dean, trying to trap a bit of heat next to his beloved. He winced as a tender bit of his wing grazed Dean’s skin.

He rubbed the thin, sensitive flesh behind his beloved’s ear, feeling the tension in his other melt away. Working his way down Dean’s neck, his mate let out a sigh.

“You are so good for me.” He stroked down the side of Dean’s neck, relishing in the shivers that rippled down Dean’s form. “So wonderful, letting me take care of you. I’ll take care of you, such good care of you.” He pressed down Dean’s spine, pressing his other into his chest, letting his lips rest next to Dean’s ear.

“I promise to take care of you. I promise to hold you whenever you want, even if you just miss me or if you get cold. I-ah,” He pulls his face away from Dean’s just a hair, loving how Dean leans to follow him, “promise to kiss you,” Castiel pecks his other’s cheek. A slow press of lips, right next to Dean’s ear. “whenever you want.”

Castiel pecks Dean’s cheek again. And again. He lets his lips smack softly, as he trails down millimeter by millimeter to the hinge of Dean’s jaw, which has slackened in the increased rate of respiration in his beloved. 

“You are so perfect. Just like this. Just letting me hold you,” Kiss. “Is such a gift.” Kiss. “You are everything I could have ever dreamed of having. I’ve got you now. I’ll take care of you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. So wonderful. So perfect for me. So beautiful.”

He knows he’s rambling, but the way that Dean shivers and sighs and relaxes with each word make him want to believe that his mate could understand his words. He places another quiet smack of a kiss on Dean’s cheek. The way it makes his beloved’s breath hitch, the kisses, the words; he would do it forever if it made his mate understand how much he meant to him.

“I love having you in my arms. Feeling how warm you are. Touching your skin.” He brings up another handful of water to Dean’s hair, letting his hand trace the fleeting, ephemeral trail of the river of water down Dean’s spine. Tracing the path down to the dip in his other’s back, letting his hand splay across it. “You are so soft. So warm. My perfect other.”

His own eyes were getting heavy. He was more relaxed than he’d been in quite some time. His mate, pliant and receiving in his arms, and he could _give_ , give and give and Dean, albeit unknowingly, accepted it.

“I waited for you, you know.” Castiel whispered. “I waited and I listened. And you,” He pecked down Dean’s neck, just above his collarbone. “You _called_. And somehow,” Kiss. “Somehow.” Kiss. “I heard it.”

He chuckled once to himself before he breathed in deeply. Letting the scent of his mate fill his lungs, become part of him. His beloved smelled so wonderful, so divine. He let himself taste, licking at Dean’s neck. His other shifted away from the wetness.

Castiel smiled and brought his lips back to Dean’s ear. “You taste so sweet.” Dean’s head lolled back as Castiel’s breath danced over his ear. “Did you know that?”

A shiver rolled down his mate’s spine, arching his neck ever so slightly, exposing the tender skin to be taken once again by Castiel’s ministrations.

 

* * *

 

Castiel whispers enchanting, beguiling words to the blossoms, as if in a secret confab.

The blooms came alighted, bending down into the pool, releasing their glory into the water. Dean wounds were quenched by the edified water, becoming new again.

The water could heal these wounds on his other, he was grateful and in ever-debt for that blessing. Yet, it could not do as much for him. 

Castiel brushed this thought aside. Turning to himself after checking once again that Dean was perfectly settled and cleaned.

His feathers were a mess. They were always in a disarray, even after a normal flight, let alone a skirmish with a flock of fairies. They had pulled and picked at his wings. _The unholy things! How dare they._ The rage that they would dare cross an angel, would dare come between him and his mate-

Castiel drew a deep breath. _Calm. Focus. They are no more._ He wishes that he could smite them all over again. But Dean, _Dean_ was more important, keeping him calm, by keeping himself calm. It would do no good to upset his mate after the terror he just went through.

His mate was clean, healed of all wounds that had bled. 

He wades into the spring, grimacing as he fluffs his feathers. The water soaks in, permeating through his plumage. 

It stings. The stiff movement of some of his feathers indicates bruising. Which may have damaged the shaft of the feathers. If so, they would fall out and new ones would grow. It would be troublesome, hindering his flight.

He stands there, still, feeling the miracle of the spring be with him. Flow in him and through him.

Dean calls out in his mother tongue. 

Castiel turns back to him, reassuring him, speaking “I am here.”

Castiel sees more than hears his mate mumble something. Speaking softly as he approaches, he reaches out to Dean, who flinches only to break out into shivers.

Having his mate cold wouldn’t do. Sitting himself down next to his other, he presses Dean into his chest. Wrapping one wing around his other, he brings the other in front of them and takes Dean’s hand in his. 

Leading the hand to his wing, he guides it down through the plumage, straightening the feathers that have been knocked astray. 

 

* * *

 

_Freaking dick took off my clothes. Did it like it was nothing too._

It’s not freezing, not even close, but it’s also not super warm. The air is airing on the warm-ish side, but while soaking wet caused goosebumps to races across his skin.

The angel left him sitting on a step. Which was freaking fantastic because he couldn’t see shit. Plus, the angel was all ninja or whatever because Dean hadn’t been able to hear him for a number of minutes.

When Dean could stand the silence no longer, uncertain of his fate or how long he was meant to be sitting cold and unable to see an inch in front of his face, he hesitantly called out, “Hello?”

This angel answered back immediately. 

“Ah. Well. Uh. Okay…” How embarrassing. The angel couldn’t have been more than a few feet away.

A hand on his knee sent him jumping. It was warm. 

Then, what could have only of been wings were wrapping around him. Heat radiated off of them, sending Dean into a momentary stupor of relaxation. 

He felt his hand being lifted and then he felt the softest things he’d ever felt. Smooth, warm, soft as his hand was slowly drug through an endless expanse. 

It was feathers, he realized. They were… amazing. He reached his hand back up to run his hands through them again on his own accord. He dug his hands in deeper to feel even more of them.

A hiss and a hard flinch away from his hand caused him to immediately withdraw his hand. Had he hurt the creature? It would surely defend itself, attack him, hit him. Teach him not to disrespectful and negligent. 

He flinched when he felt his hand being taken and put back into the feathers. The angel was murmuring nonsense to him, cooing. A low rumble, drone became the background noise as his hand was guided through the plumage. 

He was so caught in the rhythm that when the guiding hand was taken away, he kept running his hand through the silky feathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may extend the ending of this. But I've been keeping it held hostage and beaten it for long enough.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. (again) But I have exciting news! I FOUND THE PLOT MOFOS!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Ahh! I'm so excited. I know where the story is going (for the next 5-8 chapters) and it's so exciting and rainbows and sunshine and glitter!
> 
> I have been trying to figure out where this was going (that I didn't hate or despise the thought of having to write) for way too long and now I can stop stressing (for about 2 months or however long it will take me to write it).
> 
> Anyway, I wanted to share that with y'all. :3

Dean notices three main things when he wakes up. One, he doesn’t remember falling asleep. Two, he is not wearing any clothes. And three, the angel looks exhausted.

The creature’s eyes are barley open. While they’re both laying down, the angel is breathing heavily; constantly, quietly, but deeply.

Upon noticing Dean’s awakening, Dean feel himself pulled in for a morning (or whatever time it is) feeding. The push is weak. Thin. It’s also quicker than has been. Just a few seconds before the angel turns away and is breathing even harder, letting his head rest heavy on Dean’s shoulder. 

It was warm, whatever the angel was doing. It felt nice, like warm soup sitting in his stomach, just enough to make the rest of him feel cold by comparison.

A single shiver had the angel pulling him in closer, tucking Dean’s head into his shoulder. Wings tighten around him, brushing his face with a wonderful softness that he can remember from yesterday. His arms trapped at his sides, he moves his head, nodding, nuzzling against the wings. Feeling the softness drag across his face again and again.

The angel sighs in relaxation, the creature’s body relaxing a little bit more.

However, after a few minutes of Dean being awake, the angel turns his face and connects their lips once more. There’s more heat in this kiss, like it’s an actual kiss instead of a feeding. Friction between their lips makes Dean’s face heat up. He doesn’t kiss the angel back, that would be weird, but he lets the creature do what it wants. For now.

It goes on longer than Dean thought it would. The angel made slow languid movements, occasionally pecking at his carefully unresponsive lips, before diving back in. 

However, after the angel started to suck on his lower lip, Dean let out a small, uncontrollable moan, so short and suppressed it sounds like a whine. The creature paused, before humming and continuing his ministrations. Nudging, caressing and sucking at his lips until Dean’s body betrayed him. His lips quivered and pushed out slightly. That was all it took.

The angel’s wings were instantaneously shuddering around him. Feathers flicked across his skin. He could feel the angel shaking from the wing’s tremors. 

A hand came to the back of his neck pushing him closer, the angel licking his way inside his mouth. Dean couldn’t help but moan.

It felt good. It shouldn’t, but it did, and he knew what would make it feel even better. He kissed back. He didn’t have anything to prove. It felt good. That was all that he needed right now. 

So when the angel placed a hand on his waist and squeezed, the undignified yelp and pain that shot through his body like it was on fire, he tore away, shoving the creature, the hand away from him.

The noises coming from the angel would have been humorous if he wasn’t currently trying to stop his body from spasming, causing pain to ripple through his body with each twinge. 

At first the angel made a forlorn cry when Dean drew back, trying to chase back the contact, before sussing what had happened. 

Cooing and cradling Dean in his arms, rearranging his weight. There was still a knot in his side, making it hard for him to breathe.

The look on the angel’s face was a mixture of wincing and pity. What Dean could hear over his own short gasps was more nonsense.  
“Ego paenitet. Paenitebat.” Over and over again.

The angel was straddling him, not touching except for placing, caressing his face. Running its hands through his hair made his skin feel even more sensitive. Leaning into it, Dean was surprised by how good it felt. How it made him lid his eyes and his entire body felt heavier, warmer.

However, when Dean opened his eyes, the sudden frustrated, pinched look on the creature’s face along with the light headed over-oxidized feeling, had Dean barking out a laugh, to his immediate regret as he clutched his side further.

The angel gasped and cooed, bringing their foreheads together, staring into Dean’s eyes.

When Dean’s ragged breath, released into the angel’s face. He would feel bad, but the angel was _breathing it in_. Taking the breath out of Dean’s body and into his own.

A chaste kiss pressed against his lips. A small ball of the angel’s force sank into him.

And another.

And another.

The dry, chapped open-mouthed pecks had Dean mouth tingling in sensitivity, but the creature stopped there. Smiling down at him as Dean felt his eyelids get heavier. 

A pull, in the back of Dean’s mind, tugged him down, down. Under. Into darkness. Into sleep.

 

* * *

 

He was weak.

Hopelessly, irrevocably, unable to be overlooked or set aside, pathetically weak.

His breaths, the actual need of oxygen, made him want to turn away from himself with disgust. His body was heavy, lethargic. 

His mind was worse for the wear, as well. Giving into his desire to have every part of his other, before it was the time.

He chastised himself for his rash actions, giving in to his longings, like he was an Forsaker. 

Dean didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve having a mate that could not keep himself together. 

He wanted to give Dean so much, be so much more, but instead he was weak.

Just being around Dean made him warm, but _touching_? Castiel could barely hope to keep his hands off his other, his face. To trace the relaxed expression on his love’s face. To feel the soft skin under his eyes. 

To pull his beloved into an embrace and feel their essences unify in the heat trapped between them.

His mate was tucked into him, face buried in his neck. Breathing in his scent and nothing else.

Castiel ran his hands through his beloved’s hair. Playing with the wisps. Pushing the short hairs against the grain. Swirling circles in the longer locks.

Dragging his large palm to cup the back of Dean’s head, he let it rest there. He could feel the puffs of warm breath on his neck. Placing a kiss on Dean’s forehead, he lets himself relax more fully in the embrace.

Being with Dean would always make him feel better. He didn’t know what he would do without him. Without his warmth, his love, his embrace. Without access to his skin or his soul. He would surely become a husk of himself.

Some of his feathers, his blood feathers, were damaged. He didn’t have enough left in him, enough strength to care for Dean and heal himself. He was handicapped enough as it was.

Dean alone would have been enough to lull him into a sleep state, but weakened as he was, there was no use fighting what was inevitable. 

He pushed sleep into Dean, before tucking his other back against him. Pressed flush against one another.

His other sighed and pressed his cheek against Castiel’s collarbone, nose crowded into his neck.

Castiel let out a sigh of his own, eyes fluttering shut. Letting the feeling and scent of love and home surround him and send shivers down his spin, easing his way back to sleep. 

 

* * *

 

Darkness surrounded him like a blindfold. There were little buds of light here and there, but not enough to actually see much of anything.

Warmth enveloped him like a cocoon. Everything was soft, smooth. 

Someone was rubbing at his neck, pushing it to the side and running their fingers up and down the tender skin. It feels good. It feels easy. 

The fingers dig in to the sore muscles. Dean lets out an approving moan. A chuckle comes from behind him.

 _Oh. The angel._ Dean figures he should probably do something about that, but... it feels good.

He lets himself be lulled back under, with the angel’s fingers still weaving through his hair.

 

* * *

 

The next time Dean wakes up, all is still. He’s still perfectly warm, but he’s… not _un_ comfortable. He’s just not… right.

Dean starts squirming, moving different parts of his body to see if he could assess the source of the problem. The restless grew, along with Dean’s frustration. He’s practically flopping around trying to make any position feel better.

Until a low growl stills Dean’s movements. He was on his side when he heard it. It had to be the angel, he knew, but…

He rolled onto his back, craning his neck to see the creature as he did so, before-

He was pinned flat on his back. Two points of contact on his shoulders, securing his position. The growling grew louder, encroaching upon him.

Lips descend upon his. Hard.

And he felt… better.

Calmer. Sleepier. 

Comfortable.

 

* * *

 

His mate was so malleable when he slept. So peaceful and beautiful.

His other’s eyes fluttered, like a butterfly’s wings, barely batting the soft cheek. He was dreaming. 

Castiel nosed his other’s neck, breathing in the warmth, the peace. _Divine._

However, the angel noted, Dean’s hair was reaching a state of uncleanliness, his other itching at it in his sleep. His love didn’t need to be awake for this. He, himself, was feeling the pull to go back to sleep, back to rest, back to healing. He would, but only after he had taken proper care of his mate.

Bringing his other into his lap, he began to groom his mate’s hair. Lavishing kisses where the hair met skin. Licking the hairs back, ridding his other’s face of salt.

Puffing his feathers, he reached a hand into his wing and tapped free some wing dust. Taking the dust, he massaged it into Dean’s hair, relishing the little sigh his love gave out, followed by his other pressing more deeply into the touches.

Castiel chuckled at his beloved’s innocent wishes.

Long after the dust had done its job, Castiel lay rubbing one hand against his mate’s hair, while the other was caressing his mate’s face. Cupping a cheek, feeling the soft skin. The angel surrendered to his innocuous yearnings and traced around his beloved’s face. Around the sleeping eyes, up the cheekbones. Laying kiss after kiss on Dean’s forehead, down to his nose. 

The angel paused, staring down at Dean’s lips. Debating if he should feed Dean again. His love wasn’t awake, true, but he had fed him in his sleep before. His mate was becoming more and more edified. Truly a masterpiece to be coveted after. 

Castiel released a sigh of his own before kissing Dean chastely on the side of his mouth.

He was already using so much energy to heal himself, but to heal Dean as well? It was taking far too long. 

He didn’t have the energy to get out of bed and do patrols. He barely had the energy to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time. 

There was time. He reasoned with himself. They were safe here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would totally say that the next chapter will come out faster, buuuut that would be a lie. I've written scenes that will be in the next few chapters, but the actual next chapter is not even what I would consider an outline yet. 
> 
> (Also, my other story Volitant is /almost/ ready for its next chapter to be released. And then the chapter after that is already written.)
> 
> I also went skiing today and I think I got a concussion. (But that's more for my record keeping than anything else.)
> 
> You guys are awesome. May your week be filled with fluff, hugs and love. <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This entire chapter is me utilizing the scenario that Dean and Cas are in to make them be fluffy.
> 
> Actual plot in next chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm was rereading the beginning of this fic and I'm cringing at some of the writing. Thank you for sticking through that. :/
> 
> Warnings in End Notes!
> 
> I apologize for my “poetic-ness”, let me know if something doesn’t make sense (or if it's too corny). Thanks.
> 
> EDIT: I added a few paragraphs about 4.5 hours after posting this.

Fire embraced him like kindling in the wind. Death greeted him like an old friend. Pain loved him like the last desperate chance. 

Castiel gasped awake. The flood of emotions, of fear, of acceptance, of nothingness hammered against him.

These weren’t his.

The angel turned to his mate, he can feel Dean’s heart race. Like fists pounding against glass, begging to be let out.

Nightmares were uncommon for his kind, but humans, in humans Castiel had been told about the sleep plague. Of haunting images that lingered, that struck fear, that singed the tongue and left a bitter taste. 

He had been told to be gentle, taught to calm, the guiding hand in the water.

Not a day went by, in his youth that he had not thought about this time. Had been able to push aside the splendor and glory and completeness of being with his other. His love. His mate.

Others had to be taught to love what would become a part of them. Not Castiel. He had loved Dean from the moment his mind conceived of the thought of him.

He would push the nightmares away. Fight all the reasons they had to appear. He would be the pillar, the glowing, leading light, through the labyrinth for which there was only one way out. 

Castiel cradled the fragile countenance in his hands. 

“Dean.” He stroked a thumb over his other’s cheek, eyes trading off between Dean’s. Watching, searching for a response.

“Dean. Wake up. Come to me. Come back to me.” Castiel beckoned.

Dean’s eyes snap open, looking for familiarity in the darkness. A tear slips from the sodden lids.

“O, Dean.” 

Castiel took the fragile treasure and tucked him into his chest, surrounding them with his wings. Safe. Protected. Cherished. Loved. These were what he pushed to Dean. Comfort. Calm. Wanted. Needed. 

Longing, regret and embarrassment is what he got back.

Dean crowded in closer, breath hitching, arms braced against the angel, as if to push away at any moment. Castiel felt his collarbone become wet.

“Dean?” The quiet appellation founded silence, a still before another wave crashes. 

Dean began to shake harder. Fingers clenched against Castiel’s chest, trying to quiet his cries, but to no avail. The sounds came through, stabbing into Castiel’s chest at each tender sob.

“Shhh. Shhhh. None of that now.” He tried to calm his mate, holding him in his arms, rocking him back and forth. Trying to speak soft words to relax his other.

But the tears continued.

Castiel breathed in his mate’s scent from the short locks. Closing his eyes, he tried to think of what to do to calm his distressed other.

A wonderful idea came to him.

He shifted his beloved in his arms, so that Dean would be facing the side, rather than directly towards him. It was beautiful to see his mate distraught by the lessened contact, the removal from being fully flush with his protector. But there was time for that later, he had something better.

Cupping his other’s face, he pressed a kiss against the cheek facing him.

Dean’s reddened eyes met his, to which he smiled. Dean shifted and looked away, but Castiel pressed another kiss to his forehead before tracing down Dean’s arm to take his hand.

Castiel brought his wing closer, took Dean’s hand and drug it through his feathers.

It had been far too long since he had properly preened and there was a particular pleasure of having his mate card his hands through the plumage.

Guiding Dean’s hand over the top of the wing, to one of his oil glands. Hand over Dean’s, he taught his mate how to coax the oil out. Rubbing it in slow circles, before rolling it gently between his fingers, letting the oil coat them.

Castiel felt his breathing quicken. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead into Dean’s hair, breathing him in as he rode out the intimate sensations.

When enough oil was gathered, he guided the hand back to the inside feathers. He wouldn’t ask Dean to leave the cocoon of his embrace to get to the outer feathers, though that would need to be done later.

Castiel couldn’t help the shiver that racked his spine as Dean raked his fingers into the plumage. The feathers were so dry, they soaked up the oil, relieving part of an itch that had plagued him for too long.

Dean’s tears had slowed, eyes watchful of the developments, fingers twitching as they ran over his wings.

After working in the oil, Castiel guided Dean’s hand back for more. What surprised him was that Dean reached ahead of him, initiating the coaxing out of the oil by himself, as Castiel’s own hand hang uselessly, loosely around Dean’s wrist.

He tried to keep his breath quiet, even. But Dean was moved with every breath he took, his mate must be able to feel the change.

The hand returned to the plumage, carding carefully down in long focused strokes. Castiel couldn’t help the kisses he peppered on Dean’s temple. 

Dean suddenly went stiff. Quiet dry-sobs pulsed his other’s chest.

Castiel opened his eyes to see Dean holding one of his shed feathers, already loose and ready to come out.

“Shhh. Shhhhh.”

He plucked the feather out of Dean’s hand, gliding it up his beloved’s arm, before booping him gently on the nose with it. With the biggest smile he could don and a hand under his mate’s chin, he lifted until their eyes met. 

Dean’s eyes flickered from his eyes to his smile to the feather and back again. Unable to help himself, Castiel pressed another kiss against the soft cheek.

Then, making sure Dean was watching him, tucked the feather into the side of the nest.

He stroked his other’s hair back a few times before guiding Dean’s hand into his plumage once more. After a minute of delicate, hesitant strokes, the curious fingers carded deeper and deeper into the plumes.

Dean works his other hand out from the wedged space between their chests, which reaches to join its brother in the plumage.

His little mate looks wonderstruck, blessedly distracted from the sordid imageries and thoughts that had infiltrated his mind.

Castiel is so pleased and relaxed that he can’t help the content purr that erupts from his chest.

His other stiffens for a moment before melting into him. Hands stuttering as Dean’s eyes become lidded and leans further against him, limp and placid.

The fingers, still dug into the plumage, move sluggishly. Arms and wrists are still. Simply feeling, contemplating the thought of moving more, but lacking the energy to do so.

The movements grow slower and more lethargic, until they stop completely. By the slow even breath, Castiel is sure that his beloved is asleep again.

It’s only then that Castiel lets himself falls asleep purring with Dean’s hands resting motionless, buried in the down.

 

* * *

 

Dean feels the now familiar, recognizable feeling in his stomach. He’s hungry, craving the angel’s venom.

He curled into himself, nuzzling into the soft warm pillow beneath his head, trying to will himself to go back to sleep.

His stomach churned again. It stung, like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

Admitting defeat, he opens his eyes, succumbing to the idea that at the very least he couldn’t go back to sleep like this.

He was comfortable. Cozy. Glossy feathers were wrapped around him.

He shifted a hand, to softly pet the few feathers he could reach without really lifting his arm or moving.

They were beautiful. Dean had never pet a bird before, but he never imagined that it would be this soft. The smooth feathers locking together. 

Dean is tempted to dig his fingers into the wings. To feel the soft insides again. His hands itch to bury his hands in the warm vestibules of silky down. 

But he didn’t really want to wake the angel up. 

Heck, he didn’t even want to be awake himself. He felt like he had been sleeping forever, but he was _tired_. Tired in a way that staying up all night, or not sleeping more than eight hours in four days, couldn’t even compare to. 

It wasn’t a lingering, nagging exhaustion that messed with thoughts and motor control. No. It was a light-headed, fuzzy feeling, a constant pull to come back to sleep. His limbs felt heavy to the point where he thinks that he should get out of bed and do some pushups, but just that _thought_ had him beat. 

Lying there, circling a finger around a feather, he can feel a headache building, pressing out against his temples. 

_It’s withdrawals._ Dean realizes. _From the venom._

He debates with himself. He could _not_ take any more venom, and try to leave again (because it worked so well last time). Or he could take the venom and go back to sleep. Which sounded _wonderful_ , but very much so _not_ what he was supposed to be doing. 

Dean shifted up, half-sitting, resting his upper body. _Ugh._ Even that was enough for Dean to want to call it quits, but he needs to move.

His whole body is sore, like he got his ass handed to him in a fight that was not in his favor.

Still, he forces himself to move. He tries to move carefully, to not wake the angel, but he knows it’s not very likely. He is literally trying to crawl out of a sleeping bag made of wings.

It’s pitch black. He can’t see out, up, or down. The first step out of the cocoon of feathers greets him with an experience not unlike stepping on legos. Shifting his weight from side to side, he reaches the lip of the bed, or bird nest, more like.

Sitting on the edge, feeling twigs and branches dig into him, Dean takes a deep breath, preparing for however long of a jump this is going to be. Inching his way further and further over, holding on by his hands, feeling his triceps burn from the strain, trying to shorten the leap by even a few inches. 

Then, he jumps. 

And immediately falls flat on his face.

The nest must’ve only been max five feet high. He could have sworn it was much higher when he tried to climb into it. Unless it was a different nest… How many nests does one angel need? Unless there are more.

The sound of his impact and the groan from his lips, caused the angel to jolt up in the bed. 

Dean whips his head around in the darkness, blind. He can’t _hear_ any other creatures, but he of all people should know that that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. 

“Dean?” A quiet murmur from above comes. Shuffling around.

“Dean!” More frantic, alarmed. A few moments later there’s a hand touching his arm. He flinches hard at the light press. 

This just spurs the creature on. Hands trace up, fingers skimming over the sensitive skin of his neck, up to his face, rubbing light circles, turning his head this way and that.

Coos and hums lilt into his ears, murmuring worried gibberish into his ear. The fingers brush over his ears, causing- a shiver to run down his neck. Little tremors as the skin becomes more and more sensitive to the touch.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” Dean states dismissively, as he tries to bat the hands away.

Which simply results in his hand becoming property of the angel. Tracing, feeling, up his arm. It tickles.

Hands splay across his chest, searching, touches that feel more like caresses than an examination. But the thorough presses of the pads of the angel’s fingers, touching every inch of skin. Cupping presses of the palm chasing after Dean’s squirming flesh.

“ _Ow._ ” The small, voiced pain surprised even Dean.

Delicate as a feather, the angel glided a single fingertip down his back.

A hiss came from Dean, arching away from the sharp pain, from the touch, giving the angel pause.

Dean, surprised by the pain, reached his own arm back. Tracing over the sensitive skin, he found a few shallow cuts. A slight sting came from touching them, the salt from his skin causing it to burn. Most of them had only cut the first layer or two of skin, but one, from mid-back to the small of his back was bleeding slightly.

Dean pulled his hand back to examine how much blood there was, before realizing that he couldn’t see in the darkness. Between a slight sniff and rubbing the fluid between his fingers, he figures it can’t be that bad.

 _Freaking branches._ Not _worth it._

The angel caught him off guard, lifting him up into steady arms. His stomach flipped at the sensation of falling and they were back in the nest. The creature turning him over onto his side, facing away.

A warm wetness brushes his back, which he immediately flinches away from with a pained hum. A low growl comes with a hand gripping his shoulder. Another arm drapes across his side, splayed hand pressing against his stomach, keeping him still and in place.

The strange feeling returns. The small, light, wet strokes stung before the air chilled the patch of skin.

Dean tries to arch away from the ticklish feeling, but the angel growls and pulls him in tighter.

It stings.

A long whine escapes from Dean’s throat. He didn’t even know it was him making the noise until the angel’s lips were brushing his ear. A barely there shushing, pricking Dean’s ear, making him push up into the noise. Limbs relaxed, skin on his face and neck prickling in hypersensitivity.

The angel turns him, facing each other now. The creature is careful of his back, reverently so.

He shouldn’t be surprised when their lips meet, but his is. Giving him pause for just a moment before he greedily accepts the offering.

Dean can hear the angel chuckle, can feel the grin.

He feels the warmth surge through him like morphine, numbing him. Easing him back down. 

The creature manhandles him again, facing away, and resumes the ministrations on his back. It stings less this time. It feels like aloe being put on a sunburn. Soothing. Healing.

Dean’s mind grows fuzzy. Clouded. A single thought would be big enough to cover the expanse of his mind. Two and they would become muddled and confusing.

He lets his mind be blank.

A wing tucks in closer to him, practically puts itself in his hand. Entranced, he plays with the feathers, petting them softly. He can feel an energy pulsing through them.

Eyes blinking closed, Dean falls asleep with his finger intertwined in the plumes.

 

* * *

 

He’s here again.

Awake. His stomach churning, asking, pleading.

The angel’s face is right in front of his, breath puffing gently where his jaw meets his neck. He doesn’t want to wake the angel, to be moved and rearranged against his will.

He wants to fight with himself. Tell himself not to, but the knots that his stomach is in hurts more any hunger pains he’s ever had before.

He knows he shouldn’t. That he shouldn’t give in. He shouldn’t let himself surrender to the angel’s will, to his unknown schemes.

But… no one really has to know. Even the angel wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t know that he’s becoming used to the idea. Of what his life might become if he stays alive for a few more weeks. Months. Years.

What has he gotten himself into? It really wasn’t his fault that he’s here.

Dean closes his eyes and sighs, resetting all his thoughts.

He raises his eyes to the angel’s lips. They were parted slightly, even though the angel was breathing through his nose.

Dean shifts himself up an inch, careful not to make too much movement. Looking down at the creature’s lips, he bites his own, wondering if he should really be doing this. It was all the same though, wasn’t it?

He slowly lowered his head, eyes flicking up to the angel, making sure he didn’t wake up.

Their lips met, a chaste open-mouthed kiss.

Nothing was happening though.

No venom flowed into him. It was just a kiss. Dean pulled away and frowned, his stomach clenching harder now that it had been deceived of the full feeling it desired. 

_Oh._

The angel wasn’t awake to push out the venom. So Dean had to coax it out.

He’d done it before, just, not without the angel’s help. Maybe he would have to wake him up.

Dean tried his luck anyway. Laying his lips on the angel’s and trying to pull the venom out.

It took a few tries, but one particular pull has his mouth full of warmth. Dean pulled away in surprise, trying to swallow it. He thought he felt some escape his mouth, wiping it he examined his hand to see what it looked like.

Nothing. It was like a wisp of air.

Dean’s stomach clenched again, demanding more. He pressed their lips together once more. Finding the right way to pull the venom into him.

Warmth. That’s what the venom was like.

It-it felt _good_. Like drinking something warm after being out in the snow. It was more than comforting; it was more than warmth. It felt like a drug-

_Right._

It _was_ a drug. A lure. A sedative. 

Yet, Dean couldn’t help taking more and more. He _wanted_ more. That shouldn’t surprise him, but it did. Drugs were addictive, you needed more and more to get the same feeling as before. 

Although, he didn’t remember it feeling _this_ good.

Now though, Dean’s head is growing fuzzy. Being pulled under by the venom’s effects. Pulling him into sleep.

He settles himself against the angel, using the creature’s chest as his pillow. He can feel the warm venom radiating in his stomach. Flooding into his veins, making everything feel good and light and painless.

 

* * *

 

Castiel feels it as he comes to himself. He’s woozy, dizzy. Already out of energy even though he just opened his eyes. 

Dean, precious Dean, is sleeping on his chest. Even breaths indicate that he’s still asleep. The beautiful creature’s face void of all stress or pain, the perfect image of innocent loveliness. Only for his eyes to see.

Eyelashes gently rested against the cheek pressed to Castiel’s chest.

Castiel raises a lethargic arm, and presses his fingertips against the soft skin on his beloved’s face. Tracing the soft cheek bones, feeling them press up into his hand as his own chest rises and falls.

He doubts that anything in the world could be as precious to him as Dean is.

“You are so good for me, Dean. Letting me take care of you. Letting me hold you.” He whispers, as to not wake the man.

He knows that Dean can’t hear him, and even if he could he wouldn’t understand, but Castiel feels the tugging of his heart to say the words to Dean. To let him know how cherished he is.

Castiel cups his love’s cheek, raising it up as he bends down towards him. He moves slowly, carefully, as if asking permission. That if he moves slow enough and Dean doesn’t move away that it’s okay.

Even though he’s exhausted, he knows that he hasn’t fed Dean in a while. He’d rather his love continue to sleep than wake up in need. 

He loves the tingle of his lips, in anticipation of meeting with his others’. The warm press as they meet. The push when Castiel gives Dean what he needs. The pull when his Dean accepts it.

He probably gives him too much. His own recovery dampened, slowed. But he would do anything for Dean, any comfort, any sacrifice. Nothing would be too much for his other’s happiness. 

Castiel feels his head grow light, his eyes blurred, the small room swirled slightly. 

He pulls away, running his fingers over Dean’s bottom lip. Pressing down on the soft, plush flesh. Rubbing circles, watching as it moved where Castiel drug it.

Most sacred thing, lips. So many emotions could grace them. So many words could leave them. But the most sacred thing, the thing above all that gave lips power, was the sanctified exchange of energy. Only to be done between Heaven’s matched intendeds. 

Castiel smiled down at his other. Bestowing a chaste kiss on his love’s lips for nothing, but the sake of affection and love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Slight non-con for kissing while asleep, some blood/blood consumption (very minimal and non-graphic), also Dean has a nightmare
> 
>  
> 
> Did everyone have a good valentines day? I spent mine jump roping. (I wish I was kidding.)
> 
> So, I'm not sure if the last two chapters made sense, but Castiel and Dean were supposed to be 'hibernating' because Cas doesn't have energy to take care of Dean and heal himself. Did that come across or should I go back and make it more clear?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a short chapter.
> 
> Warnings in End Notes.

Dean awakens. Restless. Like he wants to run and do cartwheels. The energy makes him uncomfortable.

He knows what to do though. All he has to do is take a bit of venom from the angel and he’s back under.

This is exactly what he wants and it’s exactly what he going to do.

The angel didn’t seem like he would wake up and even if he did Dean was beyond caring. He didn’t even think the angel would care. Hell, the creature would probably be thrilled. Excited beyond all belief that Dean wasn’t fighting it, wasn’t being a pugnacious little rebel.

That didn’t mean that it didn’t make Dean nervous, though. Oh, no. His heart was beating a million miles per hour and all he wanted to do was run. But he licks his lips, takes a deep breath and connect their lips.

That warm flush is there, pulsing through him making him feel alive, complete, whole. He expected to feel tired, sleepy, lethargic. But instead, he was met with a whole new burst of energy. An energy that couldn’t be kept still, couldn’t be contained in his body.

He had to _move_. He needed it. He _had_ to or it feels like he would burst open. 

This was _good_. This was a good thing. He could _leave_.

He could leave. The thought stuck in his head and flew around in circles like a mantra, repeating over and over.

He could do this. He could leave and be over with all of this.

Dean got up and shimmied over to the side of the nest. Knowing about how far the drop is he lands much more gracefully this time. Only a few new scratches work their way onto Dean’s back. It hardly even stings though. Dean is hyper-focused, all energy, all motivation concentrated on the sole thought of escaping. 

He finds the wall slowly. Everything is still in complete blackness. Walking around like a flinching zombie, hands out in front of him, taking the smallest of steps afraid to run into anything.

Once he finds the wall, though, it feels like nothing can stop him. He finds an empty doorframe and pats his foot forewords, feeling the floor. He takes a confident step forewords and repeats the process.

There’s a step down. Dean slowly traces his foot around the step, making sure that there’s enough room for him to step down on. There is.

It takes a few minutes of trial and error, but eventually, Dean is lulled into an odd sense of security. He _knows_ he shouldn’t be, but these stairs, so many stairs, seem to go on forever. He doesn’t know how far down they might go.

He doesn’t remember much. Doesn’t really remember very many, if any, stairs that go on for this long. Granted he’s not actually moving _that_ fast. Faster than he probably should, given that he’s functionally blind, but that’s beside the point.

 

* * *

 

Dean doesn’t know how long it’s been. Trekking down these stairs, but after what feels like a lifetime he sees lights.

The softest of glows shed light over the last round of stairs banking into water. 

It all feels vaguely familiar, like a distant memory, or a photo that he’d seen, but never been to the actual place. It felt… realer than real. Overwhelmingly so.

Just before the gleam of the water begins, Dean sees several pieces of familiar fabric.

His clothes. Tossed on the steps. 

Dean can’t remember a time that he had been more thrilled to see a pair of pants and a t-shirt. All of it. All of it is there. They smell kind of musty, but they’re dry, and that’s all that really matters.

He slips on his clothes and is tying his shoes when a thought strikes him.

_Is there a way out?_

He hadn’t really been looking for one, figuring that the stairs would lead somewhere. Technically they did, but looking around the pool of water, there was no exit to be found.

Reluctantly hopeful, Dean turns around and starts making his way back up the stairs. This he felt better about. There was something much different about falling _up_ the stairs than falling down them. Less broken bones was the big feature attraction.

Dean walked securely up the stairs, knowing what lay ahead of him. Arms outstretched, tracing both walls.

His legs burned. His chest heaved. But he could feel the energy inside of him, pushing him to keep going.

It took him a few steps past when he felt it to be pulled out of the lull of monotony. 

A hole in the wall.

Dean went back, tracing over the opening. Stretching out a leg, feeling the floor with his foot. It was flat. He took a step forewords and found…

a dead end.

_Damn it!_

Dean banged his fists against the wall in petty, frustrated rage, only to tumble through the wall. No, not a wall. A _door_.

Laughter overcame Dean. Overthrown in the humor of the situation. Now on hands and knees, dirt covering his face, Dean couldn’t even try to begin getting up without being capsized by the convulsions of jocundity in his body.

His eyes burn from the light. It’s too bright. Painfully bright. But the pain feels like freedom. The scratches on his hands. The taste of dirt on his tongue. The bruises on his knees. It is his deliverance.

When he can see enough to get by, Dean gets up and brushes himself off. Picking a direction, any direction, he takes off.

Hope and a newfound confidence put a bounce in Dean’s step.

 

* * *

 

Dean has been walking for a while. Not really quite sure how long, but it feels like hours. Maybe two hours. So, a couple hours. Probably. Maybe more. It feels like more. Anyway.

He’s sweaty. Tired. There’s a burn in his legs and a dryness in his throat that he wants to go away, but he _just_ took a break a few minutes ago. It’s too soon to take another one.

He needs distance. To put as much space in between the angel and him as possible. 

The trills of energy still course through him, but it’s almost like his muscles don’t want it anymore. They don’t want to move anymore, like his whole body wants him to stop.

But he needs to keep moving. Before his body inevitably betrays him.

Dean is following the sun. Well, probably. He thought he saw the sun angled in a certain direction and just went with it. In the end, it won’t matter which direction. Any way he goes he’ll be miles from civilization.

In a handful of hours, he’ll stop to make camp, but right now the sun is still shining bright and there is no excuse for him to not be moving.

The angel makes his insidious way into Dean’s thoughts. What will he do when he wakes up? It doesn’t seem like the angel would be _that_ upset over Dean disappearance. After all, he could just go get another human. Big deal.

An uncomfortable feeling curled inside of Dean, a noticeable weight. It isn’t withdrawals from the venom. It doesn’t feel like that. It feels like… jealousy. Dean wrinkles his nose at the thought, grimacing. He’s _not_ , but the thought and feeling still lingers.

What if the angel finds him? It’s not the first time he’s asked himself that question, but it’s the first time he really lets himself think about it. The creature will probably be mad, that’s a given. He might suck out all of whatever part of Dean he feeds on, thereby killing him, also a possibility. 

The thought that the angel might not even care. That upon finding Dean will just tuck him back into the darkness, except chained to something, or kept within a cage, like a pet. That Dean running away would just be an inconvenience, rather than an actual fiasco. 

Dean sighs, pushing the thoughts down and away. Trying to remember different ways to make shelter and keeping an eye and ear out for water. When that doesn’t work anymore, he thinks of ways to get home. Of ways to contact Sam. Of ways to hide himself from whatever else lives in this forest.

 

* * *

 

Okay. _Now_ it has been hours. Hours and hours of boredom and walking.

He’d found a small river and had drunk his fill. The water was a blessing and a curse. It was a good resource to him, but also to any other woodland creatures that he quite sincerely did not want to happen across. Lest a repeat of last time happen.

He didn’t have any weapons. That was the big issue. It wasn’t like he could pick up any old stick and ask a local priest to bless it, now could he? No. 

Even if he did happen upon a particular supernatural creature, and this was the actual issue, he wouldn’t be able to _hear_ them. Unless they were being particularly rambunctious, the noise of the river would cover their sounds.

It was a chance Dean was willing to risk. The river gave him a sense of direction that, fingers crossed, didn’t loop back to the direction he came from.

He’d only been walking for a few minutes before he felt queasy. A wave of nausea hit him suddenly, bringing him to his knees. Gagging on air, he dry heaved until he finally threw up the water. 

He felt better after that.

The only things he could pin the blame for his less than glamourous reaction to the water is that he either drank too much too fast, or there was something in the water. The former case wouldn’t surprise him; Dean didn’t think he’d had _anything_ to drink since the angel took him. For the latter case, if it was in fact something in the water, he’s just glad it was now and not later.

He got up slowly. Testing himself, seeing if the nausea was over or if he was going to hurl again. When he seemed steady, Dean continued on his way.

 

* * *

 

His stomach his starting to hurt again. Not in unascertained jealousy. Not in nausea. _In pain._

It was the withdrawals, the craving for the venom. It’s not bad. At least, not bad enough that Dean can’t ignore it.

He’d tried drinking water again. Just a little bit. Not too much, not too fast. But he’d had the exact same reaction. Except it hurt worse this time with his stomach contracting against nothing, trying to get only two measly sips of water out of his body.

He hadn’t tried anymore since. Not worth it.

His throat hurt worse than before from the brisk air grating against the tender skin inside, already burning from throwing up. He wanted it to stop, but it wasn’t like he could just stop breathing.

Dean dragged himself on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for two sentences describing Dean throwing up. Also, for there not being any cuddles and only plot. *lone man tear* :(


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I have fun with synonyms.

The wards are down. _The wards are down._

He can feel it. Nagging at him. Prompting him to wake from his slumber. 

“Dean.” Castiel sighed, reaching out a hand to bring his writhe-prone mate back to him. 

His hand grasped air and fell empty against the soft lining of the nest.

“Dean?” A panic fluttered in his voice.

Rising up immediately, spinning, searching the padding, overturning anything that could hide his mate.

Nothing.

“Dean!” The angel called, heart rate rising. Breath hastening. _No no nononononono._

He flicks his eyes around the room. Searching in the shadows for Dean. For his mate. For his medium. 

Jumping down, he gave the chamber another one over.

_Where was Dean?_

He didn’t know how long it had been since his last transfer. Eyes darted over the small area. No Dean. He could be anywhere. Collapsed and hungry. 

Or, he reminded himself, attempting to calm himself, his beloved may just be exploring.

The power inside of him had shifted. No longer beckoning his mate and him into the lulls of slumber, but readily free once again to roam the lands. His feathers had grown back in quite nicely. No longer missing pieces. The barbs hooking together cleanly once more. It had been so lovely when Dean had helped groom him.

Castiel shook his head, trying to clear out the sleepy thoughts that still hung on him. His body felt like he was boiling over with energy, but his mind was still clinging to the somnolent state it had held for weeks on end.

He made his way to the staircase, calling down. Not even an echo returned his plea.

Hastily making his way down the staircase, going down, down, into the under bowels of the tree. He was nearly to the healing spring when a sliver of light infiltrated into the safe, nigh darkness. 

_The wards are down._

Castiel rushed through the door. There was no blood. _There was no blood on the door._ Whatever had opened the seal did it by force.

Dean was gone. Dean’s blood wasn’t on the door. Dean didn’t open the door. The door was opened by force. 

Dean had been _stolen_. 

He let out a furious, enraged, blood-curdling scream. Promising nothing but death to whatever creature lay in his way. This is the only warning he would give.

Stolen. Taken from right under his nose. But-but there was nothing in the air, nothing on the wind. No scents to be found.

He could only smell Dean.

Perhaps he had been coerced, threatened from a distance. Possessed and made to walk away from him.

Castiel caught the direction of Dean’s scent and took off.

 

* * *

 

It had been too long.

Castiel had been searching for too long. No longer able to keep razor sharp focus on the task at hand. The thoughts in his mind plagued him, taunted him. Drug him down into his deepest fear.

His mate was _gone_.

His mate would die. Die of the lack of Castiel’s care. He had never seen it. Only heard stories. Only heard stories of the agony and screaming and pleading for death as the human’s body tore itself apart.

Then Castiel would follow. It was only fair. Though, that was not the reason he would perish. No. Without Dean, without his beloved, without his medium, his other, his only, Castiel would suffer the same fate. 

His body would be unable to contain all of the excess produced to supply his mate. He would become a torrent of sorrow, giving and taking life indiscriminately, having long lost his mind and control of his body. Before fading away into nothing.

He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to be flying around, seemingly aimless for all the results that it has brought. Castiel wanted to kill something, hurt something. He was ready for when he came across Dean’s captor. 

That shred of doubt, the shred that had grown and become a cape of lead, weighed down on him to the point where he wanted to stop. He wanted _all_ of this to stop. The thoughts, the worry, the anguish.

It was the doubt that prickled at his skin, that bit at his heart, that stung his eyes. It was that that made him want to seek refuge in the darkness under his wings and sob until his body failed.

His teacher told Castiel that he was valiant. That he was capable of all things.

Castiel screamed. A fit of rage, of desperation, of hope, of something, _anything_ to will himself forward.

Fighting back tears, he lost the battle. Streams of tears mocked him like the torrent he might become.

He called out for his beloved, for Dean. Voice cracking, not nearly as loud as it should be. 

The scent trail was growing stronger. Growing closer to edifying Dean from his involuntary capture.

Just having the fresh scent of his mate roll over his senses made his heart crack, his body shake. Tremble to the point that he doesn’t trust himself to fly. 

Landing with only the slightest bit of finesse, the excess energy, no longer being pushed into his wings, engulfs him. Wraps him like a blanket made of snow. Soft, but deleterious. His body wracks with shivers. No, not shivers. _Sobs._

He calls out for Dean once more, knowing how pathetic he must sound. His voice cracking once again. Betraying the strength he knew he was endowed. 

Castiel could practically _taste_ Dean he was so close. He became frantic. Screaming and pleading. _Begging_ for his mate.

He wanted his mate to be safe and cared for in his arms again. He wanted Dean to be happy. He wanted to _be_ Dean’s happiness.

He just wanted _Dean_.

 

* * *

 

His stomach hurts. Clenching into itself, sending out stabs of pain. 

Dean has been staggering along, dealing with it, but this time it’s too much. He falls to his knees, feeling them scrape as he does so.

His head is spinning, pulses pound behind his eyes, pain sears at his temples. He digs his fingers into the sides of his head, trying to push the pain away, to push in the outward pressure on his skull.

Blood is smeared over his knees. More of an annoying itch than actual pain.

He needs to get back home. He knows this as he lies there. 

A shriek comes, slicing the air, sending birds into flight, fleeing the sound. 

Dean whips his head up at the sound, eyes wide and heart pounding. No longer the tired pile of hurt that he was a moment ago before the adrenaline was shot into his veins.

Whirling his head around, looking for somewhere, _anywhere_ to hide. Dean finds himself pressed back into the hollowed base of a tree. Demanding the wood to engulf him as he forced himself back, trying to make himself look as small and unassuming and invisible as possible.

“Dean! _Dean!_ Where are you? Dean! Please! Dean, where are you?” For the first time, loud and clear, he could hear the angel’s words.

The words cut into him. Sharp stabs of guilt, regret, loneliness, panic, all of this and more overthrew him. His breath punched out of him, leaving him gasping, trying to choke down air, but he can’t _breathe_. 

Dean brings a hand to his chest, palm flat, trying to catch his breath and let the dizziness of the emotions pass.

He should call back. Or, was it that he _shouldn’t_ call back?

“ _Beloved!_ ” The angel shrieked.

He can’t. He _can’t_. He can’t go with that creature. He needs-

The angel comes into his view. Dean shrinks up even more, but can’t resist the compulsion to see the creature.

“Please!” The creature is whipping his head around, searching frantically.

This was the first time Dean had seen the angel since… Who knows? It felt like forever that they’d been hidden in the darkness.

His chest is bare. Dean feels uncomfortable with the knowledge of how soft and warm that skin was.

The angel is… pretty. Weirdly, almost-but-not-quite offputtingly so. Death black hair matched the ominous wings that trembled behind the angel, drooping awfully.

His face is streamed with tears and fixed in a state of panic and desperation.

When the angel starts to look his way, Dean closes his eyes. Turning away, trying not to breathe too much. Nothing sets of a creature like having something look at it. Even humans know, even they can _feel_ the eyes on them. Watching, waiting.

 

* * *

 

Castiel’s mind is heavy and clouded with finding Dean, there is no scent of another, there is only Dean.

He spots his mate, curled up in the hollowed out base of a tree. Eyes closed, breathing hard. Has his beloved sought refuge in his weakened state? Lost consciousness?

 

* * *

 

Dean only has to wait another moment more before he knows his location is compromised. He doesn’t even have to open his eyes. The clamoring yell, his name shouted as if it was both a warning and an exaltation, the hailing the powers above.

Shaking hands come up and cups Dean’s face with both hands.

The angel’s hands feel clammy and gross, but more than that he can feel himself being pulled under by just the touch, like the venom was seeping through his skin. Yet he ached in emptiness. It was worse knowing it was right there. Knowing the relief he could have if he just gave in.

Cracking his eyes open, the blue, blue eyes locked onto his, capturing them in a gaze too intense to tear away from. Stuck in the vortex of panic and rapture. It was too much. He was out on display, like all of his thoughts were there for the angel to see, to judge.

That Dean was petrified, but more than that. He was vulnerable, defenseless to the invasive eyes. He closed his eyes, away from the eyes that felt like they could see too much.

He tried to pull the angel’s hands off of him, to turn his head away, but he was too weak. Before he could even put up a fruitless fight, the angel’s mouth was on his.

A whimper escaped him as the creature tenderly, reverently caressed their lips together. As soon as the push came, Dean was gone. He _pulled_. Like a man dying of thirst, there was no time to savor. 

The angel moaned in relief, pushing more into him. Pressing closer, gripping him. Clutching onto him just as much as Dean clutched onto him.

Ecstasy quivered through him as all the pain slipped away and nothing but unadulterated bliss shot through him.

He sank into the feeling as his mind went blank, carrying him separate from physical time.

The angel broke their lips, the light-headedness wasn’t gone, but it was better. When the angel pulled away, letting his hands slip from Dean’s face to his shoulders broke him out of his stupor. 

Dean cursed himself. His eyes burned, prickling with tears.

_Damn it._ Why couldn’t he pull himself away? Why wasn’t he strong enough?

He curled over onto himself, sobbing into his knees. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t strong enough. It didn’t matter why. He’d failed. He failed.

“Dean?” The voice was tentative. Unsure. Hesitant. A hand carded through his hair. “Please, look at me.”

Dean unenthusiastically peeked up, glancing at the angel before covering his face with a hand. Rubbing the tears and tiredness out of them.

 

* * *

 

Shame and hopelessness seeped from Dean. 

Castiel’s chest expanded and contracted, riding on the waves of his silent breath. He could only shake his head in disbelief, in a minute way that while he could feel the movement, it probably could not be seen. 

He _left_. He left me.

Absconded him. Rather taking a chance at death than staying in the safety of the nest.

He thought… He thought he had been doing so well. Providing. What more did his mate want? What was he doing wrong? Did his mate not feel how perfectly they harmonized?

Castiel never thought he might become a Forsaken. 

 

* * *

 

Dean peeks through his hand when he hears the angel’s breath hitch.

Dean sees the realization on the angel’s face. The widening of eyes. The slight cock of his head. The hard stare of disbelief. The tightening of the angel’s lips, pursing in chagrin. Eyebrows scrunching together in disappointment.

There’s no place for Dean to go. He’s already pressed up against the wood as far as he can be.

It’s too much. 

“You left me.” A forlorn croak came as the angel’s head tilted to the side in confusion as tears prickled in his eyes.

The emotions are pressing down on his chest like an anchored weight. Adrenaline is telling him to breath, but the black specks in him vision are saying that it’s too much. 

It _hurts_.

The miserable aching. The disappointment. 

He already felt light-headed before, but this is too much. His mouth ajar, he fought to force the air down his constricting throat, but it was too dry. 

His vision warps into a kaleidoscopic vision, everything distorted and out of place. Everything, except the angel’s eyes. 

The Aegean gaze was overthrown by flared pupils. They bore into him, dragging him down further, his breath lighter, shallower. 

 

* * *

 

Castiel watches, powerless to stop it, as his mate’s body goes limp.

He let out a plaintive cry, gathering his mate up in his arms. Pressing his face into Dean’s neck, breathing in his mate.

He can do this. He can do this. He just needs to get back to their homestay and- and… then what?

Castiel knows _rationally_ that his love is confused, is scared by all the new vicissitudes.

But it _hurt_. It hurt beyond compare to know that the love and care and every part of himself that he had given to Dean was… unrecognized. 

Was every kiss forgotten? Every moment that he had held his other insignificant? Every whisper of love unrecognizable? Every act of devotion unnoticeable?

Castiel _knew_ he wasn’t doing good enough. His mate needed more. His beloved deserved more, so much more.

He didn’t deserve to have a mate. To have an other. He didn’t deserve to call Dean his. He had failed one too many times. Perhaps… he wasn’t ready. Perhaps he heard the call too soon. Too soon. Before his time. Before he was supposed to. 

He had felt ready. He had felt so ready. Beyond ready. 

It was a moot point anyway, debating whether or not he was worthy. He had his other, his medium. To abandon Dean now was both murder and suicide. If he did not die himself from the separation, his clan would surely find and kill him for treason. For apostasy.

And Dean… Dean would die from the distance, the heartache. His beloved didn’t know, but the transfers were… more finicky than his other would hopefully ever know. 

Not a minute later, Castiel felt his beloved’s pulse change.

 

* * *

 

The angel was draped around him. Head buried in his neck. Dean felt the creature shaking a little, whispering into his skin.

“Dean. Dean _please_. Don’t leave me again. Please don’t leave me. I don’t- Beloved, I don’t think- You don’t understand. I could make you _happy_. You make me so happy, Dean. Please, let me be enough for you.”

He awkwardly raised his hand, intending to pull the angel back or something to discourage the behavior, but ended up with his hands resting on the angel’s head. His hair was soft, Dean noticed as he rubbed it slightly. 

The creature shifted closer to Dean, pressing their chests flush together. Dean stroked the angel’s hair, running his fingers through the silky locks. 

“It’s okay. You’re okay.” Dean didn’t think the angel meant him any harm. At least, not at the moment. 

The sobs only got louder, more dejected and despondent. Dean tried to shift a bit of the weight off of him, but the angel clung desperately to him. A miserable beseech for Dean to stay still.

“Dean. Please don’t leave me again.” The doleful plead rasped into his ear, muffled by his own skin. “There are dangers out here. There are so many things that could take you away from me.”

“Jeez, just stop crying, would you?” A desperate imploration slipped off his tongue. He had never been very good at handling others emotions.

“I don’t think…” The angel paused, licking his lips, swallowing. “Just give me a little more time. I’ll prove it to you. I’ll prove that I can care for you properly. I can be everything you need.”

Dean shook his head, lost for words.

_Everything._ What does it mean to be someone’s everything? He doesn’t need to be taken care of; he could take care of himself. 

How was he supposed to tell this creature that he wanted to leave? That he didn’t want to stay and be the creature’s little pet.

“I don’t…” He started before cutting himself off. He really didn’t want to say the wrong thing.

Then there was the matter of time. He had no idea the amount of time that had or hadn’t passed. How long the angel planned to keep him. What he was keeping him for.

“Why do _you_ need to take care of me? I must be such a burden. I mean, I can take care of myself. So, it really isn’t necessary.” Dean trailed off.

The angel was watching him intently, curiously. Dean took it as a good sign.

“I mean, I can handle myself pretty well. I’ve gone up against some…” _Don’t say something offensive._ “…bad monsters and come out on top.” He feels himself start to ramble. “Granted I don’t have any good weapons on me and it would be easier with them, but…” 

He glances up at the angel, still raptly listening. “I’m still a good fighter. I’d be fine.” _You know,_ after _he got over the venom addiction._

The angel didn’t say anything, as if waiting to see if Dean would say anything else, before speaking himself.

“Your voice is so lovely, beloved.” The angel brushed his cheek, gazing wistfully into his eyes. “I wish I knew the words you spoke.”

Dean stiffened. Eyes widening. Gaze hardening, fixed, set as if carved into stone for but a moment, before crumbling down.

_Shit._


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like everything and nothing is happening in this chapter.

His words meant nothing. Still meant nothing.

He could… Dean felt himself internally sneer. He could _what_? _What_ exactly could he do?

The angel cooed at his distress; crowding up against him, blocking out the world with those impenetrable wings. Gathering his head, guiding him to lay his temple on the angel’s shoulder, to press his face into the neck that became his blindfold.

Not only was the venom highly addictive and has a shorter-than-he-would-prefer effective period, making it harder to go between doses, but he was _beloved_ by the angel.

A finger traced over the shell of his exposed ear. Just lightly teasing the skin with a fingertip. 

He wasn’t just some snack. He was a _pet_. Something that valuable, precious needed to be protected, to be cared for.

The finger was joined by another, rubbing at the sensitive spot where his earlobe attached. His eyes squeezed shut as he flinched minutely away from the unexpectedly overwhelming, consuming touch.

Or it was a mind game. Either way he was screwed. He was already screwed, but with this… With this… _development_ , Dean internally rolled his eyes at the word choice, he knew the angel was likely more attached to him than, say, a vampire would be to a captive feeder human.

“Shhhh.” Hot air blew across his ear, making him shake. Dean tried to suppress a gasp, managing a shaky, uneven breath.

So what was left for him to do, but give in? He would let the angel have its fun while Dean figured out its weaknesses. Besides, it didn’t seem like the angel was intent on hurting him, or the creature would of already have done so.

A hand came up to the back of his neck, accompanied by a symphony like unto rolling waves. Massaging the muscles as Dean stiffened in a moment of stupefaction before the kneading hand coerced him into a dazed stupor of pleasure. 

Like the rush of a drug, any lingering aches were gone and his whole body was instantly alight with pleasure. Every ounce of attention focused, concentrating, savoring the lightness of his limbs.

A low moan of contentment came from the back of his throat, his breathing heavier, deeper, rocking into each knead. 

He felt himself go limp, melting into the cooing angel’s shoulder.

His mind was blank; blissfully, absorbingly blank. Eyes fluttered on the edge of being shut, observing detached and indifferent to the flickering, unchanging scene before him.

He felt himself shiver before he realized the cause. The angel was speaking to him. No, he was whispering. The edges of his lips brushing against Dean’s ear as he spoke.

He could only pick out one out of every few softly whispered words. 

“…I… 

…please… 

…I’m sorry… 

…here… 

…know… 

…take… 

…please…

…I’m sorry… “

“You’re so good for me, Beloved.”

The angel tutted slow, near inaudible words into his ears. Fingers softly, delicately created mazes and made paths in his hair, moving randomly, stopping to massage perfect circles in all the right places.

An unvoiced whine carried across on his exhaled breath.

The angel pressed a desperate chaste kiss on Dean’s lips. “Come, beloved. Let us return to our homestay.”

He pulled away and stood, guiding Dean reluctantly up and along. They walked a few feet to a bit more of a clearing. That’s when the angel stood to Dean, chest to chest. Gathering the man up in his arms.

Dean allowed it. There was no way he could outrun, hide, or convince the angel of anything at this point.

However, when the angel started batting his wings, getting ready to take off, the last thing Dean wanted was to be back in the air. Ever.

“No! No way. _Not_ happening.” He shoved the angel hard against his chest, writhing in his grasp.

The angel, to Dean’s relief, paused his endeavor. “Dean? What is it? Are you in pain?” The concern in his voice was discomfiting, face close enough that breath puffed against his face.

Thinking on his feet, he nodded. Sliding a hand up to the angel’s shoulder, down his arm to his hand, Dean clasped their hands together. A protest came as he was pulling the rest of his body away, but a squeeze of their connected hands seemed to be sufficiently soothing, as reluctant as the angel was.

“C’mon.” Dean gestured his head and took a step in the direction they were facing.

“You want to walk?” The tilt of his head, squinting his eyes. The essence of pure confusion that radiated the being had Dean bending over in laughter.

Nodding with a smile, Dean replied, “Yes.” Tugging the angel to start moving his feet by their interwoven hands.

They had gone maybe twenty feet when Dean was called to a stop and pulled in another direction. “Dean. The nest is this way.”

 

* * *

 

They had been walking for a while when Dean spotted the perfect log to take a break on. Taking a seat, he stretched before closing his eyes for a moment. Damn, he was tired.

He heard footsteps walk up next to him, soft crunches on the forest floor. A quick peek revealed the angel leaning on one knee on the log, while the other leg was straight. Cautious eyes looked around, scanning the area as Dean relaxed.

A warm, soft pressure came to rest on the back of Dean’s neck. It prickled as Dean focused more on it, refusing to detach as he shifted under the weight. 

He batted back at it, but shivered, startled to find himself touching his own hypersensitized skin. Rolling his neck and rubbing at the spot made the odd tingling itch go away, but the warmth weight remained.

“Dean?” The low, quiet, soothing voice came. Rolling over him like a light breeze, the sound made him relax.

The more he relaxed, the better the weight felt. The warmer he felt. The sleepier he felt.

 

* * *

 

“Dean?” He called again, concerned. It was at this second call that his other turned his head to face Castiel. Dean’s whole body lulled as his head sunk for a moment, before popping up and being propped up by a hand.

Castiel moved closer to his mate, sitting down on the log. He reached out to touch Dean’s face, pleased when he closed his eyes and leaned into the warmth.

“Dean.” Castiel sighed, letting his eyes become lidded. 

He moved slowly, slowly into Dean’s space. His nose bumping against his beloved’s cheek, sighing before nuzzling against the skin. He pressed a light, chaste kiss against the tender flesh, cherishing hushed whine that Dean made when he pulled away with a quiet smack. 

Placing soft, unhurried pecks, trailing down his mate’s cheek. Upon reaching the soft, parted lips, Castiel barely brushed his lips against Dean’s. Peeking at his other’s face, he was contented to see closed eyes. 

Dean’s lips following after his, Castiel captured them with his own. Perhaps feeding Dean in an unnecessarily, but undeniably satisfying, sensual way. Moving their lips together, creating a pleasant friction.

When he pulled away, his mate was panting, eyes still shut and features serene. 

He hadn’t noticed, in his tunnel vision, that Dean had relaxed back, Castiel supporting his torsos weight on an arm he had curled around his other.

Castiel smiled, eyes softening, tucking his chin down ever so slightly. A warm wisp curled in his chest.

“You are tired, Beloved. I will carry you the rest of the way.” He placed one last lingering peck high on Dean’s cheek.

 

* * *

 

The angel picked him up like it was nothing. He was right, though; Dean was tired.

A haze overcame him after a minute of the angel not trying to up and fly away. He was warm, his hands tucked between the angel’s back and his wings. His fingers mindlessly rubbing a few of the soft feathers.

The rocking of steady, sure steps made it impossible to keep his eyes open. Every once in a while he would blink them open, look around at the same endless forest, and tuck his face back against the angel’s neck.

He vaguely wonders if the angel’s skin has some sort of supernatural quality to it; each touch addicting in its own right. The scent too. Sure, it smelled like warmth and a bit of salt and everything skin was bound to smell like, but there was something else. Something right.

His thoughts came and went from the idea a few times. His mind drifting in and out of consciousness, as if being pulled along on an endlessly shifting current.

A single eye slit open when he realized he was awake again, taking in inventory of his surroundings. Yet, when he saw the wings his mind digressed.

They were only a few inches from his face. Before he stopped to think if he should, Dean slipped a hand out of its warm cocoon and was pressing the wing into his face.

The wing twitched sporadically under his touch, feathers quivering against his face. Prior to Dean being able to identify what the scent reminded him of, a hand came, pulling his hand out of the plumage. Then it guided the limb down in between him and the angel, resting his elbow on his thigh.

A careful hand petted his hair softly, to the point of a circumspect cautiousness. 

“Go back to sleep, Dean.” The hushed command reverberated through the angel’s chest, drawing an inaudible sigh out of him.

After squirming into a comfortable position, Dean obeyed.

A few more times he slipped in and out of the waking world, before a sudden change jolted him into alert. The cloud of hazy tiredness lifted as the infinite sea ceased its rolling waves.

He twisted around to see the angel pushing open a door into darkness. From the bark and the size of the tree, it looks like they were back to where they started. Time to get off this train then.

The angel let him down without too much of a fuss, but not before insisting that he could carry Dean the rest of the way. He was good, thanks.

Besides, there was no way in hell was he going to let someone, _anyone_ , carry him on stairs. Those things are dangerous. No, thank you. Dean would rather have his balance and potential falling to his doom in his own hands. Or… feet, whatever. 

The angel guided him… _down_ the stairs. Why are they going down the stairs? Isn’t the nest the other way?

Dean felt a bit on edge. Mostly the whole falling to his doom thing. The darkness seemed to eat the light. It consumed everything. His eyes burning, wide and searching to find even a hint of what was around him.

The had been walking forever. Dean had finally found a good pace, a bit of rhythm and trust in the size of each step.

Then, he heard a gasp right before he suddenly bumped into the angel’s back.

“Hey! What-“ Dean cut himself off when he felt it.

The angel was shaking.

 

* * *

 

His heart stopped. Clenched. _Sunk._

The healing spring has been compromised. Corrupted. 

Such a beautiful, miraculous thing. Gone. Greif filled him, consumed him. A part of his world, a hallowed piece of sanctuary was _desecrated_. 

Filthy, thick scum caked the walls, bobbed in the once clean water, now running dark, deathly green. The air smelled of ash, no longer the light aroma of attar from the blossoms.

The once lit room was dark, even unto his eyes.

Castiel shut his eyes, feeling the weight of the loss press against his throat and chest until he could barely breathe. Eyes prickling at the realization.

The tree was _dead_.

How could he of let this happen? He had put wards up, he should of have felt them wither or break. 

But he didn’t feel it. He hadn’t felt anything until it was already too late. Too late to do anything.

It was before their time, but they would have to abandon their sojourn, their homestay. Nothing in the tree was sacred anymore. Nothing untainted by the infectious tyrant. Nothing was safe. Nothing _had_ been safe.

There was no chance, no probability that Castiel would allow for Dean to stay here. Not for another night, not for another hour.

They were leaving for Castiel’s flock, his home, now. Perhaps one day, his flock would come back and reclaim this tree, but by that time, it may be that the only way to cleanse the area would be by hellfire.

He pulled Dean back towards the way they came, mindful of the human’s strength. Going slow enough for the man to keep up with, while debating to carry him up the winding stairs.

His mind wandered, circling around in grief and longing.

Castiel did the only thing he could for his lost home. He sang of the lost, ruined, and abandoned. The keen of the perditus.

 

* * *

 

Dean startled slightly when he heard the soft tone. An eerie hum that grew into an odd, quiet song. The reverberations from the chamber echoed back in a haunting, dissonant support.

Dean felt himself grip the hand holding his tighter, put off-guard by creepy melody.

It grew into longing, a funereal mourning. Somber tones with dolorous peaks. Building and ebbing in a winding, changing tune that Dean couldn’t quite discern.

He was more than grateful when he saw light come up ahead. Walking a little faster now that the end of the keening refrain would soon no longer be surrounding him.

Stepping into the light, the angel takes him several paces away from the exit before turning around to face the colossal tree.

Soft tears trailed down the angel’s face. Nothing like the lamenting sobs before. No. These were quiet tears, following the trails down his face of many shed before.

The angel stared silently back at the tree before noticing that he was the subject of Dean’s own gaze.

A soft smile appeared on his face before he gathered Dean into his arms. Guiding Dean’s head to rest on the angel’s shoulder. Pressing a lingering kiss into Dean’s hair. 

“I am sorry, Dean.” He felt a sigh a warmth seep into his hair. “The time is unfit. Nevertheless, we must part from this homestay and return to my flock.”

Dean jerked back, arching away as best he could, hands pressed against the angel’s chest as sturdy, unrelenting hands kept them hip to hip. 

_More angels? No. Just… no._

Would they all treat him the way this one did? They would be everywhere. How many would there be? Too many to even think about escaping. Would they be as forgiving as this one? He had pushed the creature too far too many times for the lack of retaliation. He knew it was just a matter of time before he pushed him to the breaking point. Eventually, the creature was going to snap.

 

* * *

 

Castiel was almost amused by the curious look of terror on his beloved’s face. Rubbing a thumb on the human’s hip, he consoled his beloved. 

“Relax, Dean. There is no harm that will come to you. My flock is benevolent and merciful. I expect they will be surprised that we have returned to them so soon,” A mournful gaze shot back at the tree and a tight, fake smile, he then turned his attention back to Dean. “But it cannot be helped.”

He sighed, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment. It would take several long days to journey back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone say symmetry?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to a super long chapter! 
> 
> I wasn't actually planning on writing the journey to Castiel's homeland, more of just a summary, but then I got inspired. So I am happy to present this to you.  
> (This also means that things I said would be coming up soon are still coming [like answers] but maybe in a chapter or two.)
> 
> I also put a math term near the end of this chapter. Let me know if it doesn't make any sense. (Mathematics can be romantic. Fight me.)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter in endnotes.

“Come.” He began to rearrange his arms around Dean, more suited for flying that comforting.

Instantly, Dean is trying to push him off. Kicking against him and attempting to escape his grasp.

“We cannot walk, Dean.” He explains calmly, holding his grip steady. “It is too far. I promise you; no harm will come to you.” He leaned over to give his other a kiss on the lips, but Dean turned away from it. 

Frowning, he sighed, “I will not let you fall. I will keep you safe, Beloved.” Letting all his emotion and intent seep into the endearment.

Dean flushed at the word. _Beloved._

Castiel loved seeing his other so demure, a blush covering his face, eyes averted in embarrassment. He swooped down to try again for a kiss, but again, Dean turned his head away.

“I promise.” Castiel whispered again before beating his wings, getting ready to take off.

Dean scrambled against him, squirming incessantly. A hand swung around his back, clutching, _ripping_ at the feathers. Dean was trying to tear them out in his panicked rage.

Castiel grabbed the wrist of his other’s arm, making the both of them freeze.

Castiel’s body stilled into stone, while Dean’s trembled. His eyes boring into Dean’s with a concentrated, controlled fury. “ _Dean._ ” He ground out. “ _Fix them._ ”

He felt his other’s chest against his, taking quick, shallow breaths. Dean looked terrified, or at least stunned.

Castiel guided Dean’s hand through the rumpled feathers, holding onto his other’s hand like an inflexible shadow. His mate’s eyes flared wider as Castiel led him. Punctiliously putting the feathers back in their rightful places.

Dean did not know this treason; how barbarically offensive it was to touch the feathers of another’s wings, let alone purposefully move one out of place. Even in times of war between clans every warrior held the honor of refusing to stoop as low as to attack another’s wings.

As his mate, Dean held the intimate freedom to touch his wings without explicit permission. However, to deface one’s mate’s wings, _especially_ a mate’s wings, was beyond disrespectful. 

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Concentrating on the gentle drag of Dean’s fingers through his feathers. 

He hadn’t as of yet shown Dean how to properly groom the exterior plumage. After this, it may be a while before his other was ready to learn.

When Castiel’s rage dulled to a simmering displeasure, he lead Dean’s hands to wrap around his shoulders.

“Hold fast unto me, Dean.” Castiel commanded. “Trust I will never put you in harm's way.”

He beat his wings and gripped his mate tight. Together they rose above the canopies of the forest, above a mess they would have to come back down to.

 

* * *

 

Dean had always been afraid of heights. It wasn’t some big secret. Sam knew he hated it. Bobby knew he hated it. Heck, that one kid down the street in some Podunk town that he stayed at for about a week knew about it. Weird little kid, that one. Beady eyes. 

Flying had been an avoidable challenge. That is, flying in _planes_. Why couldn’t he just be mauled by a werewolf and call it good? 

Because that would be too easy. That’s why. The Winchester life couldn’t be easy; it simply wasn’t in the cards for them.

All of this was the angel’s fault. He could have just killed Dean, but no, he had to go and make Dean into his personal, little vending machine.

He didn’t know if Sam had given up on looking for him. Doing some side jobs while keeping an eye out for him. What it even worth keeping up hope? Besides, it wasn’t Sam’s job to get him out of it. He would never let Dean live it down. 

What _would_ Sam say? If he saw Dean here, at the beck and call of a monster. Probably how stupid he was being. That he couldn’t manage to escape or figure out how to signal Sam where he was. It was like he wasn’t even trying.

No. No, he was being irrational. He _did_ try to escape. He did. Tried and _failed_. The venom was too much for him. His body craved it. Even now he could feel himself craving it. Like some junkie, he wouldn’t be surprised if he couldn’t last more than a few hours of refusing the angel. He was pathetic-

No. No, the _angel_ was pathetic. Dean felt his rage build up, simmering under his skin. The angel was the one who was poisoning him, bending him over like a good little bitch. Always there when he needed another hit.

Dean clenched harder onto the creature as he felt his head tilting towards the ground. They were descending.

Squeezing his eyes tight, feeling his muscles burn, he endured the seemingly endless venture down. A swoop in his stomach and they were upright again.

As soon as their feet hit the solid ground, Dean pushed off the angel uselessly, stuck caged in those steel arms. 

“Let go!” The confused scrunch of the angel’s brow made Dean thrash harder. Finally staggering a few feet away when the creature decided to let go. His whole body was shaking in rage. 

“How dare you!” Dean roared, whipping back around to face the creature. “How dare you take me away from everything! To hold death over my head like you own me! Like you’re _god_!” He walked toward the creature until he was right in front of him. “You’re _not_! You’re _nothing_!” He shoved the angel hard in the chest. 

“Fight me!” He pushed the angel again, crowding into him like he would in a bar fight.

“C’mon!” He punched the angel square in the jaw. Yelling out in pain, but too high on adrenaline and rage to care. 

The angel didn’t even flinch. Didn’t make a move to attack.

“Hit me!” Dean yelled, kicking the angel in the stomach. It was like kicking a wall. 

“Fight back!” He roared. The angel wouldn’t even block his attacks. The creature looked more confused than worried about his body getting damaged.

“Fine!” Dean threw a hand into the nearest feathers he could see. Bunching his hand around the base of a few and was ready to pull, when a tight hand gripped his wrist, keeping it in place.

A low growl came, “ _Dean, let go._ ” The warning tone would have been enough, had Dean not transcended into a wild, reckless state of heedless action. 

“No!” Dean bellowed as he squeezed his hand tighter and kneed the creature in the groin. 

His grip loosened for a fraction of a moment as pain shot through his leg. Then the hand gripping his wrist pushed down, forcing his fingers straight with an unrelenting strength that had him clenching his jaw in pain.

The angel easily removed his immobilized hand and in a few short and swift movements, had Dean pinned to the ground on his stomach with an arm behind his back. 

“Get off of me!” Dean hollered. Squirming and trying to buck off the creature as much as he could without having pain shoot down his pinned arm. 

He tried to throw his other arm back, to hit or pull feathers or even scratch, but it too was captured and added to the other one behind his back.

The angel sat astride his back, waiting him out as he screamed and cursed, before finally going relatively still. Twisting and jerking every now and again in small, defeated efforts. 

“You are an impressive warrior, Dean.” The angel breathed against Dean’s neck. The feeling in any other context would feel intimate, but now it just made him agitated. The prickling of his skin felt disgusting and edged on a tickled pain, renewing his irritation and fighting to get away and in control all over again.

“Fuck you, birdbrain!” Dean barked, throwing his head back to knock against the angel’s. 

Though both his arms were pinned, he could still make use of his legs. Kicking up uselessly, hitting nothing, only jarring his arms in the angel’s steadfast grip.

“Perhaps a bit reckless.” The angel sounded displeased. Amused, but hurt.

Then a sigh came from the creature, heavy and melancholy. “Soon we will be able to spar as equals, but this is neither the time nor the place.”

“Shove it up your ass.” Dean grit out.

Another loaded sigh. “I will let you up, Dean. _If_ ,” He let the word hang, “you do not attempt to engage me in combat again. Do you agree to these terms?”

Dean didn’t answer immediately. Breathing against the dirt, he didn’t really have any options. Letting out a grunt that was neither in or against agreement, the angel sighed again.

“Close enough.” The angel told himself, taking his weight off Dean’s back and slowly putting Dean’s arms into a more natural position. With that, the creature got up and took a couple steps away from him.

Dean pushed himself onto his knees. Rolling his shoulders and neck, he opened and closed his hands a few times to get the blood flowing back into them.

“We may walk for a while.” The angel decided.

Dean rolled his eyes. _Thanks for the permission, your majesty._

Getting up, Dean accidentally caught the angel’s gaze. Those eyes traveling up and down him. Staring at him like there was something was out of place. He couldn’t help but look down to see what the angel was looking at but saw nothing but dirt. Brushing that away, he glanced up.

The angel was looking in the opposite direction but was still half facing him. Dean went to stand near to the creature, but kept a few yards between them. He didn’t want the angel getting any ideas.

But when the angel gave him a glance and began walking in the direction he was previously looking, Dean felt his heart clench in resentment. _That’s_ all he got. A little glance. And here he was thinking that the angel gave two shits. Whatever, it’s no skin off his back.

Yet, when they had been walking for a few minutes and the creature began looking back every other minute, as if checking that Dean was still there, he felt himself get agitated. 

Fed up with it, he just brushed past the angel, taking up the lead and, hopefully, keeping the general direction.

 

* * *

 

He was out of breath. More than he should have been after only walking for an hour. He’s been fueled by hatred and anger for a solid twenty minutes before he had worn himself out. He’d been looking for a place to rest, just to sit down for a few minutes for longer than he’d like to admit.

Dean felt the weight on the back of his neck consistently now. It was comforting in an odd way. When he felt like giving up, just collapsing where he stood, his hand would wander, beyond his control, to rub at the spot. Each time it seemed to help. To give him more energy. To help him go a little bit further.

His head had cooled off. Yet, there was still those nagging thoughts. The relentless, persistent feeling that this, all of this, was wrong. That he should be doing something that he isn’t. That something wasn’t enough.

He was too tired for this. Body fatigued and limbs heavy. He could keep going on his own, he would rather this than fly, but he just needed a few minutes to regain his energy.

Spotting a fallen, not-yet-rotting log, he made a beeline for it. Sitting down, propping his feet out, Dean relished in the weight being taken off the soles of his feet.

He flinched at a sudden, close rustling sound to his side, only to find that the angel had sat down next to him. Ignoring him, Dean closed his eyes, posturing, trying not show how worn out he really was.

“Dean.” A call for his attention, he turned his head to look at the speaker. “Do you understand the words I speak?”

He kneaded his eyebrows together in confusion, frowning, but nodded anyway.

The angel looked away, rubbing his mouth. He looked back at Dean and sighed. 

“Then now is the time I must tell you something. Something important.” He knelt down in front of Dean. Hands resting on Dean’s knees, pushing them out to slot himself in between the man’s legs, forcing himself to be the focus of Dean’s gaze.

“There are creatures out here. Violent, malevolent beings that wish to do nothing but to hurt you. I do not say these things to make you fearful, but to make you understand. To make you wise in your actions. 

“You are so precious to me. I do not know what I would do if I lost you.”

 _A precious commodity. I feel so special._ Dean looked away, unable to take the creature’s intense, stripping stare.

“You are vulnerable, out here by yourself. Even with me, your presence is a target. I will protect you with my life, on my honor. But Dean…” The angel trailed off. Sighing he brought a hand to Dean’s face, guiding their eyes to meet again. “ _Beloved._ ”

His eyes lowered in discomfiture. The word saturated in a meaning that he couldn’t, wouldn’t let himself, decipher. No. The endearment was a ploy, a mind game. Dean let himself replace the meaning with something far less familiar and laced with implication.

A breathy sigh came from the angel. “Please, look at me.” A thumb ran over Dean’s cheek with a tenderness that made him want to reel back.

Not entirely alacritous, with a drag of time and motivation, he let their eyes connect. Willing himself to keep contact, he let his eyes go out of focus; staring past the angel’s eyes into a blurred fog of nothingness. 

 

* * *

 

“I can only do so much. I long only for your safety, but I can only ensure this if you will let me.” Castiel cupped his other’s face firmer, stroking his thumb harder, more incessantly. His eyes bounced between the two of Dean’s. Even his breathing quickened.

He shuffled closer, trying to quench his longing to hold the human close to him. To envelope him in a cocoon of safety. 

He continues in a whisper. “What do you need Dean?” He lets himself pull Dean’s head down; letting their foreheads rest against each other.

His mate’s eyes slip shut. He lets his own fall closed, blocking out the rest of the world, letting all senses be surrounded, enveloped, _defined_ by Dean, by his beloved, by his other.

“What do you want? I will give you anything you wish. Anything I can.” _All of me. All of my being. I belong to you as much as you belong to me. Before we are one, we are two separate beings, trying to be. I will give you anything you ask of me. All I ask is that I may have all of you. And should I ever have to, it is you before me. Us before family. Us before war. Us before God. These are my vows and this is which shall be kept._

_…lest you do not vow them unto me._

A phantom tear in his chest. The longing that should be long quenched by touch. 

Castiel fought with himself. Convincing himself he was close enough, that he had enough. That this was enough. That simply being with Dean was enough. Having Dean was enough. Knowing Dean was safe was enough. Loving Dean was enough. That this, just this, was enough.

But it wasn’t.

He let himself slide into Dean’s arms, pressing the sides of their heads together, their chests together, their hearts together. He let himself squeeze his beloved tight in his arms. He let himself ignore his other’s limp arms. He let himself overlook his mate’s tense frame.

“Just tell me what you want from me.” He begged. He was begging. 

_Why?_ Why _wasn’t this enough? You’re so far from me, Dean. Where are you?_

A hand came, pushing, a persistent pressure on his ribs. 

Oddly shaped words and contorted syllables blew across his ear.

 _Dean._ Dean was speaking his peculiar, foreign words. Sharper and louder and unquestionably not words that he would want to hear if he were able to understand them. 

Castiel pulled back, but the hand kept pushing until there was a vast gap between them; only then did it fall back down, following gravity back to its owner. 

Embracing Dean did nothing to soothe the ache in his chest, but this _distance_ , it only served to tear him further. He shifted, rolling his shoulder. Trying to keep his arm down, but it flew surreptitiously, without his consent, without his knowledge, up to massage his chest, as if to keep the pressure from pushing out his chest.

But all it was was pain. The heel of his hand digging against his sternum. A pathetic distraction from the real agony, but a distraction enough it was.

It was then that Dean rose, Castiel unwillingly keeping the distance constant, sinking back onto his feet. He stared up at the man, the human, _his_ human, as he slipped off of the log.

Dean beckoned to him, gesturing for him to follow. Yet, Castiel wanted collapse over the log where his mate once sat despondently. His mate didn’t want to touch him. His mate was _disgusted_ with him. By him.

His hand kept rubbing at his sternum as he stood. Pressing in. Trying to replace the incessant, unrelenting ache with one that he could control. As if pressing down where his heart lie would stop the raw, unrequited yearning. As if that would do anything but make him feel worse when Dean glanced at his twisting hand and then looked away.

He looked away. Without saying a word. Without coming to console him. To take the hurt away.

It was not Dean who had failed him. It was he who had failed Dean. Failed to prove his worth, his worthiness.

As Dean walked away, Castiel trailed after him. His body moving automatically, his thoughts circling trying to figure out where he went wrong.

Castiel had rarely seen his flock member’s mates, as he did not have one of his own and was, therefore, unknowing of the weight, the gravity that the bond involved. 

Many of his kind would escort their others where they wanted or needed to go. It wasn’t necessary to do so, but was an act of devotion. Every Onus was to be cherished and honored, for they were more than companions, more than a right. They were the very source of hope. Of healing. Of second chances. 

Onus were not fragile by any means, but even the thought of seeing Dean hurt made Castiel cringe. This did not even begin to compare or include the instinct, the _need_ , to protect.

Far too many of his kind were terrified that their other would be taken. So they hoarded their mate away, away from others; a priceless treasure that could never be replaced. Though this action was not held in esteem, the sometimes overwhelming urge was taken with understanding. 

Many a time, these were the pairs that had seen battle, that had been sent out and almost lost one another. Castiel grimaced at the thought, but his flock was not at war; there was little chance that such a horror would be thrust upon them.

Castiel found himself staring at the back of Dean’s head. His eyes tracking his other’s movements. Keeping a constant distance between them. Close enough that it would only take him a moment to come succor Dean’s desideratum, any want or need. Far enough away that Dean wouldn’t turn and glare at him before stomping away, putting more space between them.

Far too many took their right, their mate, their other for _granted_. But there was no interfering, just the fact of having an Onus had to be respected, no matter their bearer. 

If touching another’s wings was an insult, then touching, hurting, or insulting one’s Onus was equivalent to cutting off the paired angel’s wings. Unforgivable. Deplorable. The worst possible betrayal.

Only Forsakers were worthy of the act. Only they had earned such an ignominy. Such beings deserved to have their wings ripped from their bodies for abandoning their mates.

But here Castiel was, on the apparently inevitable path on becoming a Forsaken. There was no disgrace, no punishment for lying in the wake of sorrows that was one’s Onus denying their mate their right. 

No. There was nothing.

There was only emptiness. A void. A space that a thousand warriors would never conquer. A thousand blessings could replace the blessings of holding his mate. A thousand years could not fill the chasm.

No amount of time or deaths or divinity could repair him.

He was empty. He would always be empty without Dean. Without Dean, he would truly never be whole again. He felt naked, cold. He did not have permission to touch, to love, to care. Then what was his purpose. 

He had none.

Empty. Cold. Where was there to go? There was nowhere. It was pointless. They would both die. They would both die here, if it was Dean’s choice to leave, to separate. Castiel would fight, every step of the way. That is, until Dean could understand, _really_ understand. 

When Castiel could understand what his other was saying, they would converse with each other, as equals. Then, if Dean wanted it, _truly_ wanted to never see Castiel again, if Dean would rather die than be with him, Castiel would set him free. Even if it would destroy the core of both of them.

Castiel jerked at the movement right in front of him, quickly wiping away at invisible tears that hadn’t even fallen. His eyes snapping back into focus.

It was _Dean_.

It was Dean standing in front of him, close enough to reach out and touch. His heart clench even more. Torn now that what he wanted, what he wanted more than anything, was right in front of him.

Then, his beloved did something so strange, that it took Castiel a moment of flailed surprise to even consider reacting.

Dean embraced him.

The first touch of his mate’s fingertips tracing over him, even through his clothes, was like a spark. His breath hitched. A jolt flooding through him like lightning. Shocking him in the act and the touch; by overflow of emotions that filled him.

An arm loosely slipped around his waist, while the other was slung around his shoulder, and after a moment, a head rested lightly on his shoulder. 

His breathing sped up, that is, after he remembers to start breathing again. The warmth of Dean’s body seeped into him. His arms were still outstretched to the side, held out and stiff, first from the surprise, then from the indecision of what to do with himself.

Castiel slowly lowered his arms, afraid that Dean would startle if he moved too suddenly. Wrapping his arms around the man, letting them gradually put their weight onto his mate.

“Dean?” Castiel asked, whisper soft and almost inaudible. Did Dean forgive him? Was this an act of peace, of a nth chance?

His mate tightened his embrace, enfolding him in everything he needed. Tears swamped his eyes, overwhelming them, spilling over. He conceals his face in his mate’s neck, hiding away in the calming, peaceful scent that mollifies the torrent within.

“ _Thank you._ ” He choked out, only to feel Dean stiffen under his arms. 

Just as he felt the hole in himself filling, healing, closing, it _ripped_ open again. The phantom tear gouged and festering in his desperation to salvage what he thought he had reclaimed.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He invoked, tightening his grip, frantically needing to keep on holding his mate. “I’m so sorry. Please. Please, forgive me.”

He ran his hands up and down Dean’s back, neck, hair. Trying to soothe him, trying to figure out why his beloved had given him the honor of an embrace. Of why he wasn’t trying to wrestle out of Castiel’s arms. Or why he was uncomfortable in his hold once Castiel had spoken words of gratitude.

Dean’s heart rate increased, pulsing against his skin. As well as his breathing, his chest moving shallowly but with haste. Still, despite these signs of duress, Dean, his magnificent, dearly adored Dean began to relax.

“Thank you. Thank you.” He chanted in praise. Running a hand into his beloved’s hair, pressing a chaste, lingering kiss firmly against his temple. 

It’s a nearly painful relief, feeling his mate’s warmth sinking into him. He presses closer, rubbing the sides of their faces together. Humming and cooing praise to his other.

Even as the warmth seeps between where their bodies are pressed together, the experience was like having one of his flock members pull off lice from his plumage and smother the bites with healing salve. Aching, but so much more agreeable than before.

He’s almost panting. Letting the pain and the comfort mix together. 

His head is cloudy with tense throbs. A heady, disorienting experience that made him feel off. Impaired. As if he had just awakened after a rousing sparing match that ended in his defeat by loss of conscious will.

It would have only been torture, if not for the _ecstasy_. The respite of having Dean in his arms again. All of his hurt, all of his doubts, seeping out of him. If just for this moment. If just for a little longer. He could make it. He will make Dean see how much they need each other. How much he would do for his mate.

He rubs their faces together again. Cheek to cheek. For now, he would enjoy having Dean in his arms. For as long as it would last, he would take. He would take anything Dean would give him.

Anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Fighting, descriptions of pain, angst
> 
> Also, I posted a new drabble on my tumblr. As with all of my stuff, it's kind of weird, but has cuddles. It is also very fluffy and has absolutely no angst.
> 
> For those wondering about Volitant, I (like Demesne) was dreading writing the 'journey'/traveling portion. But I now have some totally adorable ideas and I'm excited about it again (Still need to finish that bath scene though. Exposition. Y'feel?). I'm hoping to post the next chapter in a week or two.
> 
> UPDATE: I uploaded the next chapter of Volitant!!! (Instead of a week or two, it was a day. Well... )


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter!
> 
> I kind of want to apologize for the last chapter. It was way more depressing than I wanted it to be. (But the exact amount of depressing that I meant for it to be at the time. If that makes any sense.) I might go back and edit it...

This angel was pathetic. For as rigid and strong and unrelenting as the creature was, he sure did cry a lot.

And he seemed so _human_ , too. Not that Dean had ever seen a grown man cry this much. 

Just then Dean had a strange thought. What if… what if the angel _wasn’t_ an adult? What if it just looked like an adult, but it wasn’t fully developed yet? And that’s why it didn’t kill him because it didn’t know that it was supposed to?

It wasn’t like Dean had any evidence to support this. This was the only angel he had ever seen up close. Besides, his head wasn’t really in the state for thinking.

He felt intoxicated. Dizzy. Out of breath. It was almost uncomfortable if it hadn’t of been so comfortable. 

Dean unwillingly admitted, if only to himself, in this particular moment, that having the angel clutch onto him scratched an irritating itch he hadn’t been able to get rid of. There was something in his skin that ached, something under his skin that felt hollow. 

But here, Dean was consumed in the pressure that held him tight against the angel’s resolute body. He felt safe. It felt wrong to feel so safe. To feel safe as the angel clung to his clothing, making fists in his shirt, weighing it down, forcing pressure around his body.

It felt wrong to ever feel safe, because safety was an illusion. There was always something that could get past a barrier. Exceptions to rules that were assumed absolute. There was always something that could get to him, at any given time. There was no time to feel safe. There was no place for it.

Yet, as Dean breathed in the angel’s warmth, a storm was quelled within him. Like crashing waves had quietened, that thunderclouds had broken and dispersed, and finally let the sun shine down on the calm sea. 

He hated himself for wanting this. For letting it affect him. It shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. He didn’t know what to do. He craved this, the contact. At first, it had prickled at him like the sting of a sunburn, but now his skin ached for it.

It was the venom, of course, not Dean. If he was honest with himself, and he tried to never be, Dean wanted this before the venom. Before the angel. Before all of this. He wanted to touch and be touched.

But he never could. It was never safe. Not really. Sure, he could have sex, but that wasn’t the same. It was the same as just holding another person. To explore them and be explored. Unhurried. Soft. With care. Without demand. Indulgent.

Greedy.

It was too much to ask. Too embarrassing to request. Having it thrust upon him, without him in accordance, was humiliating. Terrifying. Overwhelming. Irresistible. Alluring. A miracle. A godsend. Too much. Not enough.

He just didn’t _know_ what the angel wanted. He could speculate, but it was only a guess. Only a guess from years and years of learning the trade of being a hunter. 

He was tired. He was tired of being tired. Tired of being angry. Tired of thinking.

For now, he could let his mind shut off and pretend he wasn’t addicted to a murderous creature’s venom that he didn’t know what his intentions were.

For now, just for now, he could give the angel what he wanted and have what he wanted in return. His heart pounded just considering it, but if the angel was willing to give, Dean was willing to take.

Dean leans into their embrace a little more. Relaxing. Letting his weight press against the angel. Large hands flatten against his back, pressing him in, squeezing him, keeping him firmly held against the angel. 

The angel is breathing hard. Rocking Dean’s body back and forth with every breath. Carrying and pushing him as the creature’s body moves.

He can feel the relief in the angel. Their bodies pressed against each other. The angel holding him upright, taking all of his weight with resolute hands and a stable stance.

The creature readjusts him and Dean lets him. 

Dean sinks against the angel, letting the creature tip his head back; letting him hold up all of his weight. Arms wrapped around him, keeping him upright as much as he was keeping him confined.

The angel goes in to connect their lips.

Dean started to refuse, twisting away perfunctory, before a warm hand captured his face, bringing him back to face the angel. A thumb rubbed at his cheek, close enough to his eye that he closed it unconsciously. 

“Dean, you need to eat.” The angel’s worried tone pierced him.

With a furrow in his brow, Dean ducked his head; hiding himself and denying the angel once again.

He could do this. He could give in. He could have what he wanted. He would figure out what to do after this was all over. He’d done unforgivable things before and he’d lived. This… no one had to know about this.

Dean took a large, slow breath. With control and resolve, he released it; let himself exhale his concerns.

He relented. Submitted. Surrendered.

He let his eyes slip, half-closed. The angel tipped his head to the side, his face tilted up toward the sky. 

The angel approached him slowly, as if he was checking if it was alright with Dean to do this. To administer the poison. 

They made eye contact. The angel looking questioningly into Dean’s half cognizant gaze. The creature crept closer, hesitantly, with plenty of warning to let his captive resist, to let him slip away.

But Dean merely lets his eyes slip shut. He let them fall like curtains. Like a drop of water in the transient, ephemeral moment that it becomes a part the waterfall.

There was an infinite moment in a single second as Dean hung in limbo. Mind blank. A single second that could have been a lifetime or a millisecond. But after some time their lips pressed together.

Pleasure sparked through his lips. Bliss pouring into him, filling him. Lips slipped against his and he felt as if he were bursting with energy, with happiness. With light. 

He gasped into it, body arching as he was consumed with what he finally let himself desire.

It didn’t feel crowded, not overwhelming. It just felt… good.

He felt full. Complete. Whole. Unburdened.

The angel broke away with a purr, murmuring praise that Dean tuned out. Concentrating on reaching a hand around the angel’s neck and pulling them back together.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few days, the angel and Dean had flown and flown and flown and flown.

It wasn’t as bad as the first time. Although, the angel still wouldn’t let Dean look down when he tried on occasion. Secretly, he was glad he hadn’t seen how high he was. He really didn’t want to know.

At the same time, he didn’t know where they were going.

Even without looking, just knowing that he was up in the air had him paralyzed. Dean is pretty sure that the angel is partial to the way he clings to him while they’re in the air. 

His grip was unrelenting and unmovable, tremors traveling through his body without permission from both fear and determination despite fatigue. Yet, Dean swore that he sometimes heard a purr.

They only fly for a few hours at a time, as the angel seems overly, although rightfully, concerned with Dean’s temperature. He wasn’t sure what altitude they were at when they were flying, but it was freaking cold. That, and the wind didn’t make it any better.

Switching between flying and working warmth back into Dean’s limbs by walking for an hour or two.

When they were on the ground, Dean tested the angel’s limits. Wandering away, pushing how far he can go, how long he can stay out of the angel’s sight before he hears his name get called.

If it was a game, he would be losing. Because even though he’s trying to find the boundaries, there’s an uneasiness that rolls over him when he’s too far away from the angel. He sums it up to the fact that he still doesn’t have any weapons to defend himself, and the angel is the next best thing that he’s got. 

One time, Dean had got beyond the angel’s range of comfortable distance on accident. The angel had been in front of him and there was this small hill of rocks, just tall enough that he couldn’t see the landscape beyond it. 

He had climbed up in curiosity, only to find that there was another small hill of rocks, looking a bit more scenic and tempting that the one he had just conquered. Throwing a look at the angel, who wasn’t paying him any mind, he went to the next peak. And the next. And the next. 

Until he found himself looking at a lake. It was so scenic and so _not_ a forest that he felt a tug to stay, to linger, to stare. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there for, leaning his side against a tree and just taking it in.

“ _Dean._ ” The angel had called his name softly, yet the jump in Dean’s body from the unexpected noise almost pushed him to laughter.

Instead, he had turned to see the angel gazing worriedly at him, but at seeing Dean’s grin, a little quirk of a smile flashed across the creature’s face. The true bewilderment and apprehension never really leaving.

The angel had a permanent furrow in his brow, since they left that tree. Which Dean more than suspects is his fault.

He’d thought about it. Boy, did he have a long time to think about things, walking, flying, it really didn’t require that much brainpower.

He’d thought about how much the angel was concerned about him. He’d thought about how the angel treated him, like he was special. Actually special. At first it pissed him off, he didn’t need anyone looking after him. After all, he was the one who was supposed to look out for others, his brother, the mostly helpless people of the Podunk town of the week. 

It felt nice.

So, when Dean started to sit down, pulling the angel down with him, he was pleased when the creature came along willingly. The angel sitting a little closer than Dean thought was ergonomically comfortable. After a few minutes, a wing had made its way to wrap around him. Pressing him against the angel’s steadfast body.

Turning into the wing, Dean breathed in deep. Like breathing in fresh laundry. It made his lungs feel bigger, his body feel lighter, his mind feel blank. Enthralled by the smell, the warmth. He desperately wanted to bury his face in it. 

So, he did. Pressing his nose into the feathers and took absorbed, slow breath after breath. Then, the angel had begun purring, leaning against him.

He’d thought to himself how he wouldn’t mind getting used to this. Which was a horrible thing to think. Ruined the whole moment. Not really a moment, because moments were not things that Dean Winchester had. No. He had been up and on his feet after the shock from thinking such a ludicrous thing wore off.

Yet, he felt himself thinking it again. And again. And again.

He could get used to this. 

 

* * *

 

Sometimes the angel would fly through the night, leaving Dean in a dazed, rigid state. Tuning out the world around him; only focused on gripping the angel as tight as he could. Every few hours they would land, the angel massaging his knotted, sore muscles and making him walk for a bit. Either to warm him up or to stretch his stiff legs.

But others, more nights than not, the angel would find a hole high up in a tree for them to crawl into. It was odd, that it seemed like the creature knew exactly where they were, like he had been there before. That wouldn’t be completely unrealistic, but it still felt off.

He cherished those nights. Treasured being surrounded by unyielding walls. Being enveloped up in warmth. Every reminder that he wasn’t in the cold, windy sky when he flailed into the waking world was appreciated.

It was these nights that Dean started to test his ambit with the angel. How much he could take before the creature would push him away.

One night, he had his head on the angel’s chest, enfolded in arms and wings. He had just begun playing. Experimenting.

Tracing a finger in small circles over the creature’s chest, becoming bigger when nothing happened.

Still nothing.

He slid his arm up to where he could touch the angel’s neck. Light strokes up and down the sensitive flesh. Yet, the only response he got was the angel stretching his head back, giving Dean more skin to work with.

Huffing from the lack of response, Dean moves on.

He amuses himself with the angel’s hand. Lifting up and dropping fingers that are cupped against his arm. Finding how lightly he can touch the skin until it makes the angel jerk away from the ticklish feeling.

Turning it over and petting the inside of the palm, tracing over the too-human heart, head, and life lines. They were human hands. The distinct lines reflecting that. Primates had similar creases, but only one or three running horizontally across their palm.

He was never good at the research part of hunting. Only doing the bare minimum. 

Why did angels have human hands?

Were they like vampires, being human before they transformed? Was Dean going to become an angel? The thought actually made him scoff. If that was true, there would be evidence for it. Angels had been around long enough.

Besides, there was the lore, not much, but some. Tales of the angels descending from the sky in a majestic ray of light. Clad in armor and gripping blades, they mercilessly struck down those who refused them.

And then they just disappeared, only appearing one at a time to cause chaos and mayhem. Why they never returned to where they came from, to the sky, to ‘Heaven’, remained a mystery. Still now, centuries later. 

Some like to think that the creatures were the same from the biblical writings, but Dean had always been skeptical. Too many creatures disguised themselves as something already lurking in others’ minds.

Dean huffed and discarded the hand, looking up at the tranquil, likely sleeping angel.

If the angel didn’t stop him before, he probably wouldn’t stop him now. This was flawed logic, but seemed rational enough at the time for Dean to reach out a curious hand to the creature’s feathers.

Dean kept an eye on the angel as he lightly touched the plumes. To his horror, the creature cracked an eye open, looking down at him. Dean snatched his hand back, heart pumping as he expected to chastised, castigated for acting out of turn.

However, the angel only squeezed him in their embrace, making Dean inadvertently go slack in the grip. He felt himself being pulled up, or maybe the angel was shifting down. The creature rearranging their bodies until Dean’s temple rested against the angel’s collarbone and a nose nuzzled into his sleep-mused hair.

Reverent sighs and coos were hummed into his hair until the angel settled again, breath becoming deep. The only sign that he was still awake was the thumb rubbing against his back. 

After a moment, he tried pushing his luck again. Reaching out to the feathers, lightly stroking them.

Dean jolted when a purr erupted from the angel. Heart racing at the unexpected sound.

The nose buried in his hair nestled deeper, rubbing and nuzzling until his eyes slipped shut and he had relaxed into the wavelike rocking of the angel’s breath. Warm puffs of airs seeping against his scalp.

The purrs were distracting. All of it was distracting. Lulling him back to sleep, keeping him from his task at hand. Because as of yet, the angel hadn’t actively removed his hand from exploring the plumage.

So, fighting sleep, he reached out once more. Caressing and twirling feathers between his fingers. He pulls gently on a few feathers, feeling the softness of them brush the pads of his fingers.

Dean wiggles his fingers in further, down to the base, the root of the feathers. The angel twitches and fidgets as Dean feels the powder covered skin where the shaft of the feather emerges, but doesn’t pull away. The most Dean gets is a grumble.

He removes his hand from the depth of the plumage, smoothing down the feathers he set askew. Continuing to stroke them until he’s too close to sleep to do so, letting himself surrender to sleep's call with his fingers laced in the feathers.

The next morning, Dean had awoken with his hand still intertwined deep in the plumage. He’d carefully removed his fingers, straitening the mused patch as the angel purred.

When he was done, the angel had cupped the back of his head, cradling his body as he flipped himself on top of Dean and pressed venom into him with fervor. 

 

* * *

 

Later that day, after taking a dip in a river and laying out in the sun for a while, the angel invites him to help groom and oil his wings. A process that takes over an hour and is easily one of the most relaxing activities he’s taken part in. 

Although, perhaps the reason it took so long is because partway through, between the monotony of the task, the angel’s purrs, and the damnable silky feel of the feathers slipping between his fingers, Dean had nearly fallen asleep. 

He had slowly sunk forward until his forehead pressed against the angel’s back. Eyes shut as he continued the most pitiful attempt to keep on working. His hand is barely moving and at some point, his fingers just lightly scratch the same almost-inch of skin he could will himself to move.

All the while, the angel kept working on the inside of his wings. Probably working on the outside parts he would reach until he called Dean back to the world of the living.

He’d never felt so relaxed. Or he thought he hadn’t until the angel took his head into his lap and began grooming his hair.

If Dean was capable of purring he’d be doing it now. A bit of water worked into his hair, massaging tension he didn’t know was there away. Fingers combing through until it was nearly dry.

When two hands became one, Dean peeked up at the angel. The upside down face smiling back at him adoringly. He searched with his eyes for the missing hand and found it being pulled out of the angel’s feathers covered in white powder.

The angel worked it through his hair, continuing the glorious massage. 

Dean knew he’d lost track of time, spellbound in his peaceful bliss. When he came to, feeling limbless and without a care in the world as pleasure coursed through his body, Dean was surprised to find hands sliding with ease against his chest.

Surprise was a strong word. More of a ‘ _Huh. Okay._ ’ and sinking back into it.

He could smell the angel all around him as the slick hands massaged his chest, shoulders, and neck. When a hand disappeared for a moment, only to return with a renewed wetness and warmth, Dean realized it.

The angel was using his wing oil on Dean.

In a moment of curiousness, he reached a hand up to his hair. _Mmm._ He sighed touching his own hair. It was soft. Silky. Divine. Apparently, wing oil was a good conditioner. Who knew?

Letting his hand sink back, folded over his stomach, he opened his eyes slowly, peering up at the angel.

Half-lidded eyes met his. The angel was curled around him, obviously taking pleasure and comfort in Dean’s relaxation.

Hands circled around his chest. Once. Twice. Three times. Slow pressure. They glided out, pressing his shoulders down. Working their way up his neck, he let his eyes slip shut, surrendering to the feeling. They slide down his neck until they rested on his chest.

After a moment of stillness, the exquisite hands floated up, hovering over his skin, barely putting any weight down, until they reached his face. Cupping his jaw, fingers resting against his neck, thumbs against his cheeks.

Dean cracked his eyes open, just wide enough and just long enough to see the angel’s calm, content face, eyes closed, hovering over his.

A thumb inched inward until it was tracing over Dean’s bottom lip. Moving in languid circles before the pad of the thumb began grazing over the fullest part of his lower lip. Brushing down, making his lips part for a moment before releasing and beginning again.

He knew what the angel wanted. He let his lips part as he let out a sigh. Just as soon as the thumb fell away there were lips pressed against his.

It felt more like a kiss than a feeding. Lips working against each other. Sliding and pushing in tandem. 

Dean reached one hand to grasp one of the angel’s wrists. The other hand threaded itself into the creature’s hair, pulling him down further into the kiss, deepening it.

Too soon, the angel pulled away, resolving to press their cheeks together. Dean kept his hand in the lush, silken curls.

A little voice came in the back of his mind. He could take care of himself. He could wash his own hair.

Then again, he could get used to it.

He was becoming dependent. He needed to still be able to take care of himself when all this was said and done. He didn’t know what to think anymore.

He didn’t know what he would do. What to do after this, _if_ there was something after this. If he would get that chance. He couldn’t let himself get used to this, the contact. If— _when_ he got out of this, he would have to go back to the way it was. 

He would figure it out later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel so prolific. I wrote 2000 words of this today. I think something I ate yesterday gave me magic powers...


	14. Chapter 14

They landed with a thud, Dean clutching unto the angel for a few moments after they’ve been on the ground. Can never be too sure. He had to know he was truly on the ground and not just imagining it.

Besides, they’ve developed a little ritual, the benign kind, of what they do when they land. The angel would hold onto him, even after they landed, due to there being a time too many Dean had pushed himself away too soon and collapsed, legs giving out under him. 

The angel would then speak out loud that they were safely on the ground. Dean had the impression that the creature got a kick out of the fact that he knew what the angel was saying.

Large wings would drape around Dean and start to restore his lost heat. He would then begin to knead Dean’s back, working his way up until he unwrapped Dean’s arms from around him. Taking the cold hands in between his own and puffing air into them.

Then the angel would rub up Dean’s arms, massaging his stiff neck until he was satisfied. Hands would cup his face and lips would press to his. Warmth bled into him, filled him from the inside out.

The jitters would get to him then. Too much energy to stay put and let the angel work the stiffness out of him. Which was probably why he waited until he was through caressing Dean to give him another hit of the venom.

Dean would break away, groaning at the stiffness in his legs. The angel stayed close for a minute, hovering over him, waiting for him to fall or something, before eventually letting Dean decide the distance between them.

The weird thing was, after maybe ten or twenty minutes, Dean would find his skin itching for the angel’s. He fought it, of course. But it got to the point where he would only have to push the thought away once or twice before the angel was there.

It was subtle, sometimes. If subtle meant you knew exactly what the other person was doing. Walking close enough to let their arms brush over and over.

Other times, it was overt. The angel would walk next to him and hold his hand. 

If the itch didn’t go away from that, it would only be a few minutes before the angel scooped him up. Not to fly, but just carry him for a while.

He felt a mixture between absolutely pathetic and the best he’s ever felt.

They went through their routine, the same as came to be expected. The only thing that was different was that the angel was near vibrating. Hands trembling as they moved over Dean’s skin.

When they got far enough away, Dean could see the grin on the angel’s face. Breathlessly excited, “ _We’re here._ ” 

At once their lips were sealed. Moving with an overwhelming fervor that made Dean lightheaded. 

The kiss, the feeding, the whatever-it-was, broke off and ripped all of Dean’s breath away with it.

_They were there. They were where the angel’s flock was. There was no way he was going to survive this. There was no way to escape this. He thought he had time. He thought—_

All of Dean’s thoughts stopped when lips descended on his again. Gentler, but still with energy buzzing behind it.

The angel pulled back just enough to speak. “Be calm.” Kiss. “No harm will come to you.” Kiss. “My brethren will greet us with delight.” Kiss.

The angel took a breath as if to continue speaking, but cut himself off to capture Dean’s lips once more. The lingering, firm, chaste kiss grew; lips moving for just a moment before the angel pulled back. Dean automatically chasing after before he caught himself.

A barely controlled smile with eyes crinkling, “Come.” A final peck on the lips came before the angel took a step back, disentangling themselves from one another.

“Come.” And the angel led the way.

 

* * *

 

The closer they got, the faster Dean’s heart raced, pulse drowning out too much sound. He quieted his mind. Forcing air slowly into his lungs and releasing with control. 

Game face on.

Dean followed the angel as he walks up to an intricately woven arch that looks as out of place as it does wondrous. A staircase descends down the side of the hill, disappearing into the dense forest.

The creature stops suddenly, looking around with suspicion and bewilderment. He reaches out blindly for Dean, pulling him in, shielding him.

“The wards are gone.” The angel says with a frown. “They aren’t just down… They’re _gone_.” The creature fluffs his wings in agitation. A hand rubs up and down Dean’s arm in equal parts of protection and nervousness.

“Are you sure this is the right place? Maybe they just moved.” He knew his words were pointless, both on content and the angel’s ability to understand, but here’s to hoping. 

The angel seemed pretty convinced that soon he would be able to understand Dean and Dean was hoping that it would come sooner rather than later. His mind was a mess trying to figure out what exactly the angel’s intentions were.

At this point, Dean didn’t know what to think about the creature. He was always ready to defend Dean, always ready to protect. Overprotect is more like it. So far there hadn’t been any more odd dangers in these woods. 

 

* * *

 

“I don’t understand. They were supposed to be here. I- I was supposed to meet them here…” Castiel could feel the call of his brethren. He could feel that it was here, that this was the right place but… But they weren’t here. 

He could smell an odd, barely familiar scent. The musty and stale odor thickened the air. Imbued with iniquity. Filled with sin. Stunk with malevolence. 

But they weren’t here. His flock would never allow this. Not…

 

* * *

 

“ _Futuī._ ”

Dean whips his head around to the angel, frowning. He didn’t know what that word was.

 

* * *

 

A creature is walking the grounds. Not an angel. Something wishing them harm.

“We have to move.” Castiel commands, picking up Dean and darting away.

They have to get out of the open as fast as possible.

Castiel knows that he needs to fight the creature, he needs to seal Dean away. Safe and away.

He knows the perfect spot, a carved out knot in a tree just moments away. Gathering his beloved in his arms, he brings Dean to it. Setting him in it, ignoring all protests as he draws the seal and lays his hand upon it.

 

* * *

 

It’s like being shoved in a closet, a short closet. 

Dean sees the angel do something, then it’s hand started glowing. He reached out his own hand and… there’s a barrier. He’s trapped inside.

“Hey!” Dean yells, pounding against the invisible barrier. “Hey! Let me out!”

The angel ignores him, looking valiant and determined, before flying away, out of sight.

Dean continues pounding until his hands turn an angry red. Pressing against the knuckles he feels bruises that will show up in a number of hours.

_Freaking angel._

Dean bites at his skin, drawing blood and slapping it against the barrier. Against the wall. Against the floor.

Nothing. Nothing worked.

Huffing and slouching back, he stares out the invisible window. After a while, a bird lands on the branch, just a few feet away from Dean. He stays still, to not scare it. 

It’s small. Brown with black and white strips mixed in along its wings. It hops a few times, quirking its head in a way that makes Dean quirk a smile and chuckles like he would if he saw one through a window.

As soon as the sound came out though, he reprimanded himself for going and scaring off the bird.

But the bird was still there.

Dean raised his arm a little, making the smallest of movements.

The bird didn’t move. Either it didn’t see him, or didn’t care.

He raised his arm more, waving it.

No reaction.

Dean cooed to the bird, asking the creature if it could hear him.

Nothing.

This odd feeling fluttered in Dean’s chest. He didn’t know if he felt safe or trapped. Surmising then, no one could see or hear him. It didn’t matter how much or how loud he yelled. It didn’t matter if he waved or was glowing neon pink.

No one could see him.

 

* * *

 

Castiel feels his heart grieve as he parts from his mate, even if it is for a short time. 

There are intruders.

Intruders on the promised land of Saeculo. A trespass that could not be easily forgiven. The fact that the wards were down at all was troubling. Possibly dismantled before the area was abandoned, but that did not seem like his people. He was missing something. 

He heard voices, hushed, several of them. He sneered, at least they knew there was reason to hide, to be ashamed of coming to this sacred place uninvited.

Keeping hidden, he swiftly landed up high, perched on a branch. Bracing his back against the tree, he peered around to see four creatures. Bipedals. Humans.

Two were speaking to each other, hunched over looking at something hidden between them. The other two bipeds had an ear turned towards the conversation, but eyes scanning the area, always moving. They held long blunt objects, half the length of their height.

_Weapons._ Castiel realized. They were harmless, worthless human weapons, not worth the weight of carrying. He had been hit by one before, it was annoying more than anything.

Dean, however, could still be killed by the weapon. Which is exactly why he had to leave him behind, tucked away and safe.

The group was obviously looking for a fight. One does not bring weapons to negotiate peace.

He shouldn’t do anything reckless, a sign of peace.

He swooped down from the tree. Landing gracefully in a clearing where the group would have direct sight of him.

The tallest of the group yelled, the others whipping their head towards him, then the angel.

The smallest screamed. Perhaps a warning. Perhaps a threat. Perhaps a suggestion. He chose not to heed them.

Shots fired. They didn’t even pierce his skin.

They yelled gesturing wildly to each other. A light shone. The smell of blood permeated the air.

He wrinkled his nose in disgust. The impure blood tainting his senses. It mixed with the hollowed air and the scent of…

The angel’s eyes narrowed, ceasing his forward movement. He looked around, the surrounding trees, then to the moisten ground permeated with the fragrance of an essence that seemed to be such a distant memory. 

Holy oil.

The human’s hearts pounded inside their chests, ready to attack, ready to run. Fear and determination soaked their foreheads and clothes.

The humans had surrounded themselves in a ring of holy oil. Perhaps seeking to protect themselves in a circle of what no angel wanted to be caught in. 

It was all just as well. Castiel reached out a hand, to push them back, out of the circle, to break the line before it was lit.

They stared at him, eyes wide, but… unmoving.

Castiel frowned, forcing his hand harder. They stood, static as a stone, unchanging, unmoving, unyielding.

He stared down at his hand, eyebrows knit together, demanding, “What did you do!?”

He ran, charging them, as bullets nicked his skin and yelling beat his ears. 

He grabbed a weapon out of one human’s hands, butting the back of it into their face, hearing a satisfying crunch as their head snapped back.

Another human, the small one, jumped on him. He flicked it off easily with his wing, knocking them a dozen feet away. Breath knocked out of its fragile body as it’s back hit the ground.

A single strike came to his side, before what could only be assumed as cursing. An easy blow to the head had them collapsed and moaning on the ground. 

The last human, the only one with short hair, with warrior’s hair, knelt on the ground. It was fumbling with a little device, creating sparks.

Castiel fought rolling his eyes as he drags a line in the ground, breaking a wide gap in the ring of holy oil. He smirks at the pathetic creature. He’s won.

When the human persists, still fidgeting with the thing, creating sparks, he strides towards the man to disarm him.

A flame lights at the end of the device, wonderment cross both of their faces before it gets thrown down on the dirt, lighting up the crescent path.

Castiel could only wonder what the purpose of this action was for a moment before a searing pain touched the skin under his feathers. Smoldered edges where the flame had licked them. A few feathers had caught and burned, disintegrated as it traveled down the shaft to his skin.

Jolting to save the feathers, he fell to his knees, wrapping the wing around himself, beating out the caught flame against the dirt.

The putrid stench of the melted barbs and afterfeathers invaded his senses.

A weight, pressure wrapped around his ankle. He kicked, but the bind did not loosen.

He threw a wing back, knocking over the tallest of the humans who stood there.

But the pressure was still there. 

He looked around seeing all the humans holding torches that reeked of holy oil. 

Thoughts, plans, circled his mind. He needed to get out of this circle, find a new angle, split them up, put out the flames.

Just as a different strategy entered his awareness, the humans… ran.

Kicking dirt and half burning themselves on the way out of the circle. Taking turns just standing and watching him while other gained more ground.

_Odd._ Castiel thinks, watching the humans disappear in the trees. _Or rational._

Even with a disadvantage, the humans would never be able to truly overpower him. It was a wise choice for them to leave this land. They were wounded as it were, retreat was the appropriate defensive response.

He could still hear them, traveling away from him, out of the territory they had wrongfully intruded on.

When the sounds were far enough away to be safe, he kicked out the remains of the fire. After all, it wouldn’t do to have it burn forever, catching anything and everything on fire. Destroying all remains of life until there was nothing left to consume.

That being done, he turned on his heel and left the clearing. 

Once he was strategically hidden, he examined the damage of the battle. He was not unscathed, but his blessings he could count.

Castiel looks mournfully at his feathers. They had just grown in, exquisitely too.

Manifesting his angel blade, he turns to the unburnt wing. Carefully cutting off the edges to mirror the damage on the other side.

While crude looking, he would be able to fly without the risk of becoming unbalanced, or thrown off by having to apply different amounts of strength to each wing. It would take more energy, more time, but the encounter could have been much worse. 

He then turned his attention to his ankle. The pressure and weight was negligible, but infuriating.

It was a cuff. No better than a shackle, dragging him down, marking him as another’s. Sigils he had never seen before circumscribed the manacle.

There was no outside lock. A pressure activated clipping mechanism perhaps. It didn’t matter.

Taking his blade, he went to cut the flimsy human metal off of his form.

Minutes of sawing, nicking, pulling and prodding, pushing, trying to get anything to budge.

Nothing.

The cursed, wicked contraption would not submit to him. Castiel wanted to shriek. To cry out in merciless rage, in warning that he would soon kill.

He should have killed those humans when they turned tail and fled. Snapped their necks and left them for scavengers to consume and desecrate. 

Tucking his angel blade and bloodlust away, he left to reunite with his mate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Sam and the gang are here. There are 4 people total, including Sam. Guesses are encouraged as to who the other 3 are.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes! There is some dialogue that is in English that is from Castiel’s POV, BUT!!!! Castiel CANNOT understand it. The dialogue is for you, the readers.

Dean is flooded with relief when the angel comes back.

For a while, he wondered if the creature would return at all. That turned out to be completely unfounded, as the angel returned what couldn’t have been more than an hour later. 

Still, it’s the longest that Dean has been alone, _really_ alone, for a while.

The angel broke the seal, but rather than joining Dean inside, he just rested his forehead against the bark of the tree.

Something about him seemed different to Dean. Something a little more hollow. Distant. Unreachable.

With a few distracted bobs of his head, followed by a sigh and eyes refocusing in, the angel climbed in. Laying a palm near the entrance, it was sealed again.

Had it always been impossible to see in when it was sealed? 

Yet, something else caught Dean’s attention. The angel’s wings.

His heart wretched as he reached out to touch a scalded wing. A slight twitch, spasming as Dean grazed what was left of the feathers.

His eyes flicked over to the angel, taking in the creature’s sullen, distant expression. The angel rolled his wings away, like he was brushing off Dean’s touch; removing them from his sight and reach.

As the angel hid one part away, he revealed another; finally meeting Dean’s eye. His face crumpled. Nails pressing into his palms before his resolve dropped and he threw himself at Dean.

He found himself caught in a rough embrace. Nearly panicked. The angel’s whole body was tensed, uncomfortably firm against his. 

A rough hand fisted his clothing desperately. The other hand forced Dean’s head into the cusp of the angel’s neck. The creature’s cheek was pressed firmly against Dean’s head, pinning it down.

He could hear the angel’s heart racing; could feel the rapid pulse.

“I won’t let them hurt you. I won’t let anyone take you away from me.” He was shaking. Voice gruff and strained. He was rocking back and forth slightly, bringing Dean with him.

“Come here,” the angel commanded. Though Dean didn’t have to do anything. He was pulled in, lifted and brought to straddle the angel’s lap. 

Hands ran though his hair, up and down his back. Rough, desperate kisses were pressed against his face, his hair, his neck. 

It was like the angel wanted to be closer than possible, closer than meager clutching of bodies could provide.

The angel pressed an abrupt, untempered kiss into the hollow of Dean’s throat. Dean twitched back, jerking away from the sensitive feel of the sudden attack.

As soon as he had pulled away the angel was whining, forfeiting kisses to bury his face in the crook of Dean’s neck. 

A hand curled around his cheek, covering his ear as gentle circles massaged behind it.

“You are so beautiful, Dean.” The angel whispered against his skin. Breath puffing against his collarbone.

Dean stiffened. Jaw set in a way that he wanted to speak but didn’t know what to say. Even if he did it wouldn’t matter.

“I don’t want them to look at you. I don’t want them to see you. You’re too good for them. Too pure for their evil eyes.” The speech was muffled. Both by the hand caged over his ear and the angel’s face tucked into him.

Dean looked around unseeing; searching his mind for an answer that he wasn’t sure had a clear question.

His jaw worked, open and closed, but never enough to make his lips part.

The angel stroked his hair.

Dean let out a quiet, languid sigh. He lifted his hand, though there were a few false starts. Starting and stopping, not sure if he wanted to complete the action. 

Yet, when his hand threaded into the angel’s hair and the being had whimpered so pitifully; so fully showing of what the touch meant to the creature. Dean couldn’t stop, didn’t think to stop, his other hand to wrap around the angel’s waist and pull him closer.

The feathers tickled Dean’s arm as the angel’s wings trembled.

“I would kill them to keep you safe.”

Dean’s hand stilled in the angel’s hair.

He fell asleep wrapped in persistent warmth and uncertainty.

 

* * *

 

Soft footsteps crunch outside the hideaway. Too loud to be an animal, too quiet to be disturbing.

Castiel let the noise roll off him. It was not an overwhelming concern. Not enough to pull away from Dean.

“There’s nothing here.” 

Castiel twitched at the noise. Meaningless mumbles.

“This says that it’s here.”

“And what? It can’t be wrong?”

“We tested it. _I_ tested it. It should be right.”

Voices. 

Unfamiliar. Unwelcome.

Wait. 

Castiel unfurls himself from Dean, stopping to cherish the sweet, discontented grumble that his love makes as he detangles himself from their embrace.

Laying a wing fully over his other’s body and a caressing hand on the side his beloved’s thigh, he’s pleased to see Dean settling again.

Peering out of their sealed hideaway, face curling in disgust to see… It couldn’t be… It was. The same humans as before. Only two of them, though.

The tallest, darker-haired human was conversing with the smallest, light-haired one. They stood facing the tree, twenty feet below him.

“We need to be quiet.” 

“It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing here.”

“Just, uh, give me a minute.” The taller human began to circle the tree, looking up in the canopy and down, kicking the dirt around.

“See.” The smaller one sassed. “If anything, we should make a ruckus. The thing’s already powered down. Now’s a good of time as any.”

“No. Let’s just put up surveillance and go.”

“Okay. Sounds good.”

Castiel watched them, with their weak bodies and their foreign words. They didn’t have the slightest idea what they were dealing with; they didn’t understand the consequences of interfering. 

He watched as they pulled off carrying-cloths from their back. He watched as they nailed odd, shiny blocks to several trees surrounding his. Witchcraft, perhaps. He would have to be careful when removing Dean from the area.

He waited, keeping an eye on the humans until they walked away.

He had obviously made a mistake in thinking that staying in the same area would be safe. He thought that if they flew they would be too easily seen. But the humans were still _here_. 

It was frustrating. Infuriating. _Why?_ Why were they here where they did not belong?

Any way the truth bent, it was time to go. 

“ _Dean._ ” He whispered, nudging the man gently, coaxing him awake.

Mused hair and a sleep flushed face greeted him. Although, in his other’s face, Castiel could tell he was displeased at haven been awakened. 

Murmuring strange words and rubbing his pinched face, Dean was an image of unrivaled lovability and possessed every trait for being held cherished and protected. 

Castiel couldn’t help himself, running a hand through the sweet being’s locks. The glare that was sent his way stirred equal parts in him, of his heart leaping in joy and of his chest twisting in guilt. 

His love was tired. 

“We are going to the neighboring flock’s land. Perhaps they will know what has happened.”  
Castiel didn’t know how long it would take to get there. At least, a few days.

 

* * *

 

Dean let the angel scoop him up, too tired to put in much of an effort to hold on.

He trusted the angel in an abstract, removed way. It’s a fragile trust, not one that would withstand the weight of anything. It was still there though. 

He trusted that the creature would try and protect him, defend him. Yet, he didn’t trust that it would be useful or successful. 

Maybe that was more of an expectation.

He trusted that the angel wouldn’t drop him. Mostly. He trusted that creature wouldn’t suddenly and vindictively hurt him in a lasting physical way.

He trusted that the angel would never willingly let him go. 

That he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

That for all he knows the angel would be jealous enough not to let him exchange pleasantries with a passing stranger.

He was lonely, with it just being the angel and him. There was no one else. And he couldn’t really say anything of meaning, nothing that made a difference or any sense. 

Sometimes the angel would have pretend conversations with him. If Dean started to say something and paused, the creature would say some meaningless cursory words like ‘Yeah?’ or ‘Tell me more.’ Meaningless fillers that were grating on him. Wearing him down into a shadow of himself.

It was freeing in a way. He could say whatever he wanted, spill any and every secret. He could divulge and unload his soul. But though he may have a sympathetic ear, there was no understanding. 

The angel may be listening, but it was no more than speaking to an animal along his path or a companion of the creature sort.

He was alone. Alone with his thoughts and worries. Alone in a way that company couldn’t fix.

It wasn’t the worst kind of loneliness. Nor was it the best. It simply was. 

A dull ache that he could set aside as easy as a boring book. A skill he has found useful after so many years of doing so. 

Flying didn’t numb it as it used to. The standard level of terror was there, but it was now so common that he could push it aside. It didn’t consume him, falling to the back of his mind rather than filling and dominating all of his thoughts.

Any way he felt, he was along for the ride and he was sure that at some point he would be ridden out.

 

* * *

 

Castiel found a hiding roost along the path and settled Dean down for the night.

He told his beloved the story of the Mother Tree and of the sacred waters she bled.

It was a common story to tell nestlings, but Dean hadn’t heard it yet.

Castiel had never been to the Mother Tree. Only those who were deemed worthy or of need were allowed to disturb her grounds.

 

* * *

 

Dean was looking forward to staying put for more than a night. Even if the thought of more angels running around made him feel queasy.

The travel was wearing on him more than he would like to admit. Staying in one place getting used to things. He even had pushed down the unease enough to imagine what the angel commune would be like.

But they never made it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be posted on the 30th.


	16. Chapter 16

It happened all so fast. Castiel had finally prompted Dean to rise from his slumber enough get his love in the proper position to fly. Gripped tightly, he had taken off for the neighboring flock’s land, hoping for a brief respite. 

He had taken off, stretching his wings wide, beating a powerful thrust. Getting away, away-

_Pain._

His body slammed into an invisible barrier, almost bouncing him back. Dazing him, unable to recover he fell straight down, plummeting to the ground. 

His wings, already damaged, couldn’t save him.

Tucking Dean into his wings, he rolled as he hit the dirt.

“Dean?” The man was unconscious. Body limp in his arms. “ _Dean!_ ” Castiel checked his love’s pulse. _Still beating._

A rustle off to the side put the angel on guard. Wings swooped defensively around them.

The humans, those _vile creatures_ from before ran closer. He bared his teeth at them, letting out an aggressive hiss before staring them down, a rolling growl in the back of his throat. 

“Dean!” One of the bipeds yelled.

Castiel quirked his head, eyes wide in confusion and disbelief. His mind both blank and racing. Stalled out. Stuck on one thought. Unable to move on. 

_They knew Dean. They knew Dean’s name._

When one of the humans pulled out a weapon, he dismissed it. That was, until a loud bang and a sudden, sharp pain struck him. 

He clutched his wing, wetness running over his fingers.

Hand slipping back over his shoulder, he saw red. Dripping.

Rage. Fury.

He snarled, looking up through blood crazed eyes. _They will pay._

Charging forward, more shots were fired. Piercing into his arm, his leg, his side. 

He faced the tall one. Knocking the heavy weapon out of his hands. Grabbing an arm and twisting it until the human screamed, not stopping until it snapped. 

The screaming continued as Castiel jerked him into a shield. The firing stopped. 

The humans yelled at each other. 

One made a run for Dean. Castiel roared, getting between the human and Dean, blocking him off.

The humans just stood there staring at him. More yelling. His eyes following who was speaking. Unknowing what they were saying he gripped the human tighter, wringing out another cry. 

The tall human tried to kick him, struggle against him, but another twist of his already mangled arm made him go still. 

One of the humans murmured something, the shots in his body burned. More and more until it was completely overwhelming. He crippled over. Letting go of the human and casting him aside as he caught himself.

No more weapons pierced his skin. No loud bangs from the odd launching instruments the humans carried.

Just pain.

Blackness crept into his vision.

He tried to fight. Tried to make his way back to Dean. To protect him. To protect himself.

The blackness won.

 

* * *

 

Dean woke up in a bed.

With a quilt over him. In a room. A normal room.

It looked like… It looked like Bobby’s house.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, gripping the quilt in disbelief. 

It couldn’t have been all a dream. There was no way. It couldn’t have been.

He sat there for a moment, trying to get his heart rate down. He was waiting for the moment when the angel came in. When the angel came in and came and got him and took him away. For when the angel came and said that he had taken this memory out of Dean’s head and made this perfect little sanctuary in the least safe of places.

He sat there until he decided that he need proof one way or another.

Opening the door slowly, he peeked outside. There was no sign one way or the other. 

Creeping down the hall, being careful and light with his steps, voices started to dissipate- the fog of silence. Familiar voices. Voices of…

He silently padded down the stairs until he reached the doorway.

There they were.

Bobby. Ellen. Jo. _Sam._

There they were.

Just… talking. Just talking.

Dean gave a light cough to alert them of his presence. They all jumped and whipped around. 

Smiles broke out on their faces. 

“Dean!” Jo ran over to him, threw her arms around him, and embraced him. 

It felt good. It felt amazing to have familiar faces around him.

Ellen was next, wrapping her arms around him and murmuring something he couldn’t quite make out.

Sam had raised slowly, waiting his turn. He stood there. One hand in a cast and sling that Dean was too occupied with his brother’s presence to make too much of a note of.

They both made eye contact and smiled at each other awkwardly. Dean wordlessly beckoned him over with a tilt of his head and a wave of his hand in a ‘bring it in’ motion. 

Sam took two huge step and wrapped a single arm around him, hugging him _hard._ When Sam finally let go, he wouldn’t look Dean in the eye, stepping back and rubbing his face in a pathetically ‘I’m not crying’ way.

For all the comfort it brought, every touch made him sick to his stomach, his skin crawl. Every embrace made his stomach wretch, make him want to squirm away.

Then Bobby stepped up, clapping him on the shoulder, and mumbled some absolute gibberish.

Dean tilts his head, replaying the sounds over in his head, trying to make sense of them. “What… what did you just say?”

They all stare at him. Jo, eyebrows raised in an almost sarcastic surprise. Ellen, mouth pulled in a nearly-impressed frown. Bobby, mouth agape in shock with just a hint of murder in his eyes. 

And Sam, looking like he was ready to punch a wall and with enough concentration that he could probably cause as much damage with his glare.

Sam speaks this time, and it’s the same. Absolute gibberish. And when Dean says as much, it’s Sam that’s stomping away.

“Sam…” Dean tried to call after him, but he’s already gone. 

It’s Ellen who leads him into the kitchen, sits him down, and makes him something to eat. He digs into the simple, yet amazing sandwich.

It’s the first food that he’s had in… He thinks back, trying to remember the last time he ate. The last time he ate food. 

It’s been…

…

…

…

…months.

Has it really been that long? How? He’s eaten nothing. Nothing, but… poison. 

The thought makes him wretch and he’s running to the bathroom. Throwing up the two bites that he managed to get down.

Ellen’s there a moment later, rubbing his back and murmuring nonsense. The touch makes him wretch again and he pleads to her, “Stop.”

She pauses for a moment, a wrinkle in her brow, but then continues on.

He squirms away unfruitfully before dry heaving again. As soon as he has enough strength back, he removes his hand from his back. Shaking his head, a hand up, palm out and repeats the request. Dean hopes she understands.

Leaning his head against the toilet bowl, he mimics a piece a paper and a pencil, pretending to write on his hand. His speech and hearing may be screwed up, but he still has a shot with this.

While he waits for her to get back, Dean’s mind turns to the angel. Where the angel is. How he got here. How they found him.

Ellen comes back in. A notepad and pen in her hand. Handing them to Dean, he takes them and flips the notebook open.

After a moment of thinking, he writes: ‘ _Can you understand this?_ ’ and flips it so Ellen can see. 

She looks at it for a moment before looking at him. Dean raises his eyebrows, gesturing at the words again. But Ellen just stares at them, shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders.

He tries a few more times, writing nonsense like: ‘ _Where is the angel?_ ’, ‘ _How did I get here?_ ’, ‘ _You and Bobby should just get married already._ ’, but no response.

Ellen seems more exasperated each time, but she obviously can’t understand the writing. Frustrated, she calls Bobby in, gestures indicating that she wants him to take a look at it, but he can’t make head or tails of it either.

Eventually, Dean is struck by an idea.

He draws an angel. 

It’s crude and poorly drawn, but the idea is there. Bobby and Ellen look at each other, then at him. They have one of those silent conversations, before nodding.

Ellen gets up and offers her hand to him, but he shakes his head, getting up on his own instead. 

Dean follows Bobby, Ellen follows him. He feels a bit like he’s being shepherded around, like he can’t really be trusted. He does find it odd, that there are no marks on his body of being tested with a silver knife. He would think that that would be the first thing that Sam or Bobby would do, just to be safe.

The go down to the basement and a sound starts to trickle into his ears. The closer they get the more apparent the noise is.

Screaming.

Dean slowed his pace, unsure if he wanted to see the angel in such a state. Unsure at the feeling that clenched in his chest and told him that something was wrong. Something was broken.

It was getting louder. Angry snarls demanding freedom. 

Bobby stopped at the panic room, flipping open the cover on the small grated window, and stepped aside, gesturing to it.

Dean stepped up slowly, glancing at Bobby before looking inside the room. 

The angel is chained to a chair in the center of the room. 

“Let me out! Give him to me! Give him back to me! Dean! Dean, I am coming for you! Hold on! I will save you! I promise I will come for you! Give Dean back to me!”

The looks on everyone’s faces made it clear that they didn’t know what he was saying. 

He was surprised the angel hadn’t shouted himself hoarse. 

Dean stepped up closer to the panel. 

The angel snarls at him until there’s a sudden moment of recognition.

Their eyes lock.

The screaming stops.

The thrashing stops.

“… _Dean._ ” The name slipped through the angel’s lips. Slipped out with a disbelief. A reverence. A hallelujah.

His voice his horse. From shouting, no doubt. There’s more though.

“ _Dean._ Dean, you’re here.” 

Dean licked his lips. Mouth ajar to speak, but he closed it after a moment. After a glance at Bobby, Dean looked down, and without eye contact, he nodded.

He could feel the eyes burning into him. Both Ellen and Bobby unsure of the event that had just transpired. 

The angel spoke again. “Are you uninjured?”

Another nod.

“Dean, look at me.”

He shifted his feet. Bit his lip. Rolled his eyes. Then, finally looked at the angel.

The grate blocking part of his view, but he could see better now.

Ankles cuffed and chained to the chair the angel was bound to. Hands lifted up to chains pulled taut from the ceiling.

Around his waist was a large cloth, binding his wings to his back, leaving them immobile. 

“Are they hurting you?”

The question took Dean by surprise, quirking his head to the side. Why would his family hurt him? He scrunched his eyebrow, and with a frown shook his head. Of course they weren’t.

“Dean.” A brush to his arm had Dean jumping. It was Ellen. She nodded away. They were leaving.

He looked back at the angel, whose eyes were blown wide. 

“Dean?” 

“Dean?” The flap shut.

A horrible screech pounded into his ears. Hands clapped over his ears at the volume of it. Bobby and Ellen ushered him up and out.

They sat him down at the dinner table, inside the kitchen. It wasn’t until he was sitting that he could feel how hard he was breathing. How much he had been shook. How much the angel’s scream picked at him. How terribly that shriek pierced him. 

His heart was beating too fast. He was panicking. It was like he was just observing himself breaking down. Disengaged from the experience. Disassociated with himself. He was just watching himself collapse into nothing.

There’s the same sandwich he managed to take two bites of, sitting on the counter. He grabs it without much thought and scarfs it down. 

It sits uneasily in his stomach, but it’s better than nothing.

After not thirty seconds of convincing himself that he’s not going to ralph it up, he’s running to the bathroom to do just that.

The weight in his stomach lifted. Just the feeling of food inside of him felt wrong.

Had he really not eaten anything in so long? How was that even possible? He should be dead. He should be dead a hundred times over. He wished he was dead a few times. More than a few times. Kind of like right now.

Dean groaned as he flopped himself down next to the toilet. 

Why couldn’t his life just be normal? 

Normal would be boring, but it’s kind of boring getting in trouble all the time. It’s an inevitable _ugh, this again_ feeling. 

He heard footsteps come down the hall. Creeping as quietly as a large body could in an old, creaking house.

Sam’s hand came into his view, bracing against the door frame before his head poked into the doorframe. 

Gibberish came out of his brother’s mouth. It sounded relatively concerned, a little pretentious. Either way, including the fact that his words now meant nothing to everyone he ever spoked to apparently, he was too tired to sass his gargantuan brother.

When Sam spoke again, Dean just grunted in response.

Sam spoke louder, making his words stretch out. Dean just rolled his eyes and shrugged. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t the pronunciation, it was… something else.

Sam reached out to touch his arm. Usually the contact would feel awkward, but it was something Sam did, so he allowed it. But when Sam’s hand touched the skin, he hissed and pulled away. It _burned._

He shot a look at his brother with hardened, confused eyes, betrayed at the sudden sensation. Sam retracted his hands. A befuddled look in his eyes. Half concerned, half weirded out. He knelt down, hands coming up to show he wouldn’t reach out when Dean tracked his movements, shifting away when he felt like his brother had come too close.

Sam started talking again, low and slow. He obviously knew that Dean couldn’t understand him. Knew that his words were as useless and Dean’s. Yet, there he was speaking in a tone that he had heard so many times before. 

It was more grating than he remembered. 

Too soft. Voice too smooth. There was no gruffness to it.

Sam started gesturing. Hands moving. Gesturing to himself, then to Dean, then back to himself.

Dean looked back at him wearily. Rolling his eyes before closing them. It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. 

He let his head loll back, sighing, trying to regroup himself.

“Dean.”

He slitted his eyes opens, just enough to look at Sam.

His brother caught his eye, before sighing and looking down. After a moment, he looked at Dean again and huffed. Getting to his feet, he waved Dean to follow him. 

He glared at him, appalled at the audacity that his brother would make him get up. He felt awful enough without movement being put into the mix.

Sam rolled his eyes and waved again. They’d been able to communicate without words for years now, at least when it came to sassing one another. Sam was just telling him not to be lazy.

Dean got up, steadying himself as the blood rushed from his head. After a moment he stopped seeing stars followed Sam.

Down the hallway.

Through the living room.

Up the stairs.

Down the other hallway.

And into the same room he had woken up in.

The beautiful sight to his sore, sore eyes. He moved past Sam and flopped himself down on the mattress. The fall and jolt made his stomach flip, and not in the good way.

He steadied himself, letting his body acclimatize to being horizontal. A few moments later, he realized Sam was still there. He turned his head just enough to be able to see him. 

There he was. Just… standing there.

“What?” Dean asked.

Sam squinted at him. Oddly, like he was trying to figure out the oddest mystery.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m a little freak.”

Sam tilted his head. Eyes narrowing in concentration. Dean narrowed his eyes in return. Sam was onto something.

He waved his hand, prompting Dean to speak more.

“Okaaay. So this is me talking. Talking about words. Talking about words that you can’t understand. But now you look really excited and-“

Sam held out a finger, telling Dean to give him one moment. He could hear the heavy stomping jogging down the hallway and clomping down the stairs. A bit of quiet that lasted for just long enough that Dean wasn’t sure if he would be back soon, then the heavy-footed stomping that pounded back up the stairs. 

Sam rushed back into the room, several books in his arms. He set them hastily on the nightstand. Looking at the spines, he pulled one out of the stack and opened it to a random page before flinging it in front of Dean.

Dean crinkled his brow. _Sam wanted him to read? He doubted that would work. He knew it wouldn’t work._

Yet, Sam was there. Incessantly tapping on the book and giving Dean one of ‘those looks’.

“You want me to read?” Dean gave his most chagrined look through drooping eyes.

Sam just kept tapping on the book he had in front of him. 

“Fine.” Dean conceded. Sitting up and pulling the book closer. 

He stared at the book for a few moments, squinting at the words. Trying to force them to come into focus. 

It never does.

After he shoves it away, Sam replaces it with a different one. A cursory-glare later, he’s back at it, trying to read a book that could be Greek. He can’t tell.

Sam puts book after book in front of him until he can’t take it anymore. He tries to tell Sam that he’s done. Even getting up to leave, but Sam just shoves another book in front of him, forcing him to take it.

Fed up, Dean grabs the book and throws it across the room. “I can’t read this! Stop trying already! It’s pointless!”

He stomps out of the room, down the hall, and out of the house.

This was so stupid! He couldn’t read. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t think.

He couldn’t do this anymore. It was too much. 

It was too much wanting something that he didn’t want. They just kept looking at him. Just looking at him with so much expectation. And he couldn’t give them anything. He didn’t have anything to give. There was no information to hand over. No torch to pass. 

He was on his own. Except, with everyone around him.

Which made it all the worse. 

He paced the junkyard. Letting the brisk summer night air set into his lungs. 

Why did he feel like this? This is what he wanted. He wanted to be back home. He wanted to be with Sam, with his friends, with his family. He wanted this.

At least, he thought he did. 

But not like this. Not anything like this.

He didn’t want to go back home. He didn’t want to be here. It would be better if he could just wipe it clean. Like it never happened.

But it doesn’t work like that.

No one can just erase the past. Jump to a different time and pretend nothing ever transpired. 

Dean stared at the junker next to him. Rusted over. Original color eaten and covered with the new shade.

Just like him. He had been taken over. Eaten from the inside out. Now he was nothing.

He couldn’t take it anymore! 

Dean turned and punched the car, expecting the pain to cripple him. To bring him back to reality. To release something inside of him. 

Instead, it left a dent.

Dean crinkled his brow. 

There was no… way…. 

He looked at his hand. Unfurling it. Rotating it back and forth. Examining both sides.

Not a scratch.

Dean turned and let his back slide down the side of the car. Now seated, legs bent, he buried his face into his hands.

Why?

Why anything? Why did asking why matter? It didn’t. And that was the end of it.

It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. None of this ever mattered.

And yet it did.

It mattered so much that it burned. That there was no way to ignore it. In this very moment, there was nothing that mattered more. Nothing in this moment could matter more, because that was this moment. That very fact _defined_ this moment.

Because it did matter.

Because just how much nothing mattered, everything mattered.

And that was the thick of it.

Dean rubbed his eyes. Wishing that he could lose himself in grief, or anger, or _something_. But he remained all too aware. All too grounded in reality. 

**Author's Note:**

> labyrinthine-elysium.tumblr.com
> 
> By popular demand, translations for Castiel: https://labyrinthine-elysium.tumblr.com/demesnetranslations


End file.
